The place you grew up in is more permanent than your memory of it. Memory cells die and go to limbo heaven in mere decades but the streets and the buildings from when you were young are still there. “They are all so different now,” but at least they are more concrete than memory. You can never go back home, but you can go to a vague approximation of it. The playground is there, startlingly smaller than you recall, the streets are narrower, the buildings have acquired extra stories, the neighbours have moved, your class mates and cricket team mates are scattered around the world, but the place is still there, in the eerie twilight of yesteryear.