You come rather suddenly sometimes Wake me up from the white noise We set about yet again To dust the fairy cobwebs Of reminiscence Or to shake off the bit Of rust That gathers every time We don’t talk.

She routinely boarded a bus and when the bus conductor asked her the name of her stop, she gaped at him, fighting with her memory. But all she could recall was a lane full of shady trees, the angry gulmohar, the vibrant palash, the tall coconuts and all the varieties of ixora that dotted the many gardens there.