I must confess I have a soft spot for Bagan. I had been there a couple of years back, and some how the place has grown on me. Hearing people speak of the place, or coming across a photo, there would be an invariable, distinct pull at my heart strings. It was almost the same feeling I used to have for my home town, a nondescript suburb of Calcutta. One fine day it fell in place. It was not the hot air balloons or the gleaming temples, but the small provincial town of Nyaung U and its languid ways of life. It was the misty mornings and the palm trees, the smoke from wood fire and the tingling of cycle bells. Happy families chatted outside dimly lit shops, the matronly grandma haggled with the hapless fishmonger, children half-pedalled cycles twice their height, and men whiled away the afternoons over endless cups of sweet, milky burmese tea. All these were scenes from my growing up days. This is where the place had me hook, line and sinker. I realised over the years, my home town has changed so much that the memories can no longer fit in the present palette. On the other hand, Bagan has a certain timelessness to it, almost matching its pace with the gently flowing Irrawaddy flanking the town. I suspect, and pray, this pace, or rather the lack of it, shall stay on.