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A strange word, like many English words. For i would like to forget — some memories are not for getting. Out of my being, you, the party is over.

And yet, this is not how it has ever worked.

The memory stays until its time is done. I do not know what makes for that or how it happens. It remains within me, to pop up at the slightest association — they are for getting.

I was sitting in a bus today, on my way to the barber shop. The roads were empty, the sky blue and the wind blowing cool on face and mask. I found my hands doing things — twisting, shaking as if they had touched something hot — only to realise that i was thinking of a rickshaw ride i had shared 12 years ago with a friend on a similarly fresh day and ended up on a dead-end of a road.

This is something i wish i had forgotten and hope it happens some day. Till then though, on such crisp days in public transport, this memory may remain for getting.


Published by appamprawns

soni writes about children and people in controlled spaces, in his quest for appam stew. homi writes in the hope of being able to buy prawns to make patiyo.

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