Memory

Because the world smells weirder through palms with old oil on them.

Because old, oiled locks, my grand-mom’s bunch of keys: that’s what nostalgia smells like.

The stuff that that strange regret is made of.

Lost cups of ‘mom-made’ ginger-tea with lemon spike.

“Click”, goes the key in the lock, you hear it turn,

The layer of loss in your hands. The babble inside.

Used-oil smoothness, the rust of gates on your hands now,

Brown circles, where used tea-cups rip your memory apart wide.

Then musty books with their strange smell overpower you,

And you begin to think of the “candy floss for five” man;

And then in a whirlwind the lost world winks and passes by,

While you sit and wonder when it all began.

When butterfly-clips were replaced by straighteners,

When lunch-boxes became a cause for silly shame,

When suddenly, words took a life of their own,

Living with you: Loneliness, Pain, Tears, Blame.

In moments that come but rarely, yet come,

A storm- it breaks your heart.

Old smells and images blur your flashback lane

And claw your soul apart.

~ Mouli Banerjee