In this one you are a memory

In this one you

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.