are a distant memory
in a green t-shirt and worn chappals.
A memory that is the color
of the setting sun
over the howrah bridge.
A memory that is the sound
of public buses and trams
on a busy thursday evening.
A memory that has seen
the two sides of Cal--
one, destitute, poor, hungry
the other, Victorius.
A memory that smells of fumes
wet earth, and a smell
that I cant quite describe.
A memory that has just
turned three years old
in a city that has nothing
to do with this memory.
Just as I, no longer have
anything to do with you.
It was an evening not,
out of the ordinary,
for the rest of the city--
For me, it was an
evening, when you
had licked salt off the air
in the City of Water
and travelled
to me,
to give me a taste of it.
The place?
I knew you'd ask.
The terrace on the 13th floor
of the 19th block.
The jagged cemented ground
beneath our soles scraped
off skin,
off our feet--
like it was trying to
scrape memories off
our minds.
Succumbing, was not in
our nature.
Or so we thought.
Ultimately, the
jagged cemented ground
won.
Shadows of
white picketed fence houses
in the midst of paddy fields,
wooden doors and latches
and a Jack,
danced out of the window
mocking me,
out of the reach of
my extended hand--
and you floated to some
place,
that was not for me.
But what does it matter.
It's a memory that
hangs,
on a grease stained wall,
that will be broken down
when she builds her home
around yours.
And I will walk on
sweeping aside the
fragments of my soul,
as though a mirror had
crashed, and someone
with a kind heart,
had fetched a broom
and swept the pieces
off the floor.
