i dream of that place which you visited changedor maybe notill grant you that , but a place i will never knowthe spice of the cinnamon trees after a rainthe thick fume of frying fish on a breathless nightthe clock-like whirr of a 1000 bicycles erupting with the dawnthe wholesome stink of water buffalo dung drying along a dusty roadu have my memories , grandfather , and i have none .