The Pani Puri shop near the church and the ice parlour feels smaller now. Not smaller in size. Smaller in the way it holds me.
I stood there last week with a plate in my hand and felt like I was standing in the wrong place. The shop is bigger now with brighter lights. They had more chairs with proper tables. The Pani Puri counter has been pushed inside to make space. It looks improved. It looks grown. But I did not know where to stand.
Four years ago, I never had to think about that.
Back then, it stood in front of the juice shop. A simple setup with steel containers. A bag filled with round puris. The vendor wore a cap and kept everything clean. I never worried about hygiene. I never worried about space. I just worried about whether I had enough money in my pocket.
Students came from everywhere. Especially during exam season. We would finish writing and walk straight there. You could always tell when an exam had ended. The crowd said it before anyone spoke. Bags hanging loose. Faces tired. Some relieved. Some still calculating marks in their heads.
We stood close. Too close sometimes. But it never felt crowded.
He would ask, “One by one or full plate?” That question meant more than it sounded.
If I chose one by one, I had to eat fast before the puri broke. It made me alert. Alive. If we chose full plate, he would give six arranged neatly and a tumbler of mint water on the side. Then we would gather around the small circle table.
That circle table felt bigger than it was.
That was where ideas were born. Plans for projects. Complaints about teachers. Dreams spoken without fear. At month end, when money was low, we shared everything. One ordered Pani Puri. One ordered Masala Puri. Someone else ordered Dahi Puri. We passed plates around without thinking whose spoon touched what. We argued. We laughed. We even fought for the last piece and then broke it into two.
When I went alone, it still did not feel lonely. He would ask small questions. “How was your day?” “Exam tough?” It was ordinary talk. But it made me feel seen.
Now when I stand there, nobody asks anything.
Delivery boys wait near the entrance. Helmets in hand. Eyes on their phones. Orders are called by number. Packed. Sealed. Sent away. The vendor does not look up much. He reads from printed bills. He works fast. There is no pause between plates. I realised something while standing there.
Earlier, I went to that shop for Pani Puri. Now I go there for a memory.
The noise is gone. No loud discussion after exams. No one stretching the moment by asking for extra mint water. People sit, eat scroll. Leave.
The shop has expanded, but it does not expand inside me anymore.
I think the place feels smaller because I do not fit into it the way I used to. Earlier, I had time. I had friends who were always available. I had conversations that did not need planning. Now everything is scheduled. Even meeting someone needs checking calendars.
Back then, life felt open like that small street corner. Now life feels structured like the new seating arrangement.
The mint water tastes the same. The puris are still crisp. The spice still hits the tongue sharply. But the space inside me that once widened there has tightened.
Maybe the shop did not shrink. Maybe I became careful. Maybe adulthood reduces the size of simple joys.
When I walk past the church now, I do not look at the chairs or the bright lights. I look for that small circle table that no longer exists. I look for the version of me who could stand for hours without checking the time.
The shop grew. I grew. But somewhere between growth and progress, a small wide space of belonging quietly became small enough to miss.
That is why the shop feels smaller now.
