Where do your memories of me go?
Do you let someone trim them when they get too long but ask that they be careful not to cut it too short?
Do you treat them like precious jewellery?
The kind that you lose sleep over keeping safe, so you lock them in a vault away from home and accept that you cannot wear them.
Do you find them to be like Play Dough?
Your favourite childhood toy, that you’d take with you everywhere and mould into whatever you liked – until you just outgrew it overnight.
Do you find them to be like your mother’s wedding saree?
A glorified relic from the past. The kind you wish to keep – but maybe upcycle. Maybe cut it into a friendship. Too plain? Maybe a friendship with some frills.
Do they remind you of your utility bill?
A minor but acceptable inconvenience that arrives at regular intervals. Never something you look forward to, but nonetheless, a small price to pay.
Do you treat them like your 3rd pint of beer?
The kind of indulgence you’ll only allow on a Saturday night, and promise to go on a detox for the rest of the week.
Do you treat them like curry leaves?
The kind you find in your sambar and pick out to be forgotten by the side of your plate, oblivious to what sambar tastes like without it.
Do they remind you of your laundry basket?
The kind that is piling up slowly and inconspicuously through the week, but only demands attention when it is full.
Do they feel like Bangalore traffic?
That somehow, each time – the same trip down memory lane is longer and more tedious, but still worth taking.
And where do my memories of you go?
I’ve been too busy to notice them.
I got a haircut
Paid my utility bill
Stopped by the tailor
Did my laundry
Learned to make sambar
Drank some beers.
And didn’t think of you once.