Snapshots

There is a bouquet of long-stemmed roses, from last month, wrapped in a cellophane of pink stars and tied with a white ribbon, stashed away in my locker. I do not know now, what I should do with it. I did not know last month either.
A day will come, when the locker will be opened and its contents discovered, when prying questioning eyes will wonder at the fresh pink stars and the decayed flowers and the pretty white ribbon. I dread the day, for I know not yet the answer to the questions in those eyes, or those in my head.

There is also, a wooden wind-chime that makes a strange sound on lazy Saturday afternoons; there is the house next door that has witnessed innocent beginnings and selfish ends. There are candles that were lit during the last KalBoishakhi, whose smells have lingered into books, bed sheets, fingers and hearts; there are liquid timers that have evaporated into nothingness, there is a small crystal oyster on a dark wooden shelf. There is a blue beaded bracelet with a broken catch, there are old yellowing letters in an earnest hand, there is an empty Rocher wrapper. There are recipes for cheesecake and honeyed chicken never-read never-used, there are indignant red crosses on blank calendar squares. There is Southern Avenue and long silent walks, there are secret midnight phone calls, there is falling out and falling over. And there is a funny song.
There is bunking classes to play hide-and-seek, there is Haldirams, there is butterscotch ice cream on a new white shirt. There is madness, there is anger, there is walking away from a busy street. There is cloud watching and kite flying, there is Haji’s takeaway biriyani and tram rides through the Maidan. There are stormy evenings and a broken glass swan, there is death, there is Cadbury Perk. There are shy first glances, there are school uniforms pretending-to-be-adults. There are feverish journal entries, there is craftwork, there is amateur poetry.
And there is rain.
There is looking for the first time, there is Smirnoff, there is red wine. There is the sea, there is an unknown bed. There is a journey, there is a book fair, there is Dreams on DVD. There is Christmas morning three years back, there are the rows of Inox. There is crying in the attic, there are hysterical breakdown. There is Nicco Park and joyrides, there is Ashtami. There are stolen kisses on secret stairways. There are midnight story telling sessions, there are friends’ weddings, there is singing lullabyes. There is a chhatar tola, there is an SD4, there are lies never told. There is spin-the-bottle and clumsy seduction, there is a 6-hour conversation, there are surprises given and surprises spoilt. There is pushing away, there is drawing near. There is consolation, frustration, sympathy, misunderstanding, there is the second hooghly bridge, there are picnics by the river. And there are dolphins.
There is a first touch, there is a last. There is waiting outside Priya, there is apprehension, there is ‘Ode to a Nightingale’. There are errant friends and troublemakers. There is a shower, there is a kitchen. There are indulgent families and film festivals. There is a night full of stars, there is a cell phone under the blanket. There is yahoo messenger, there is sneaking in, there is a snowglobe. There are intertwined fingers and interlocked eyes, there is a long distance phone call. And there are dreams.
There are home décor books, there are coffee stains on floors, there is getting drunk. There are days missed and days made up, there is a blue glitter pen. There are names taken the first time, there are initials doodled in books, there are pictures sketched in minds. There is growing up and leaving all far behind. There are crazy, unthinking moments when all function but the mind. There is a tickle, there is nervous laughter. There is Goosey and Jimmy Porter. There is a sense of the forbidden, there is rebellion, there are bruised egos and homemade lunch.
There are confessions, there are threats. There are crumpled sheets and hastily brushed hair. There is a cork from a wine bottle. There is lightning and a hint of smudged kohl. There is a song hummed alone, there is a mischievous smile. There are stolen looks in a crowded space, there are questions answered without a word. There are panic attacks and paranoid fear, there are mood swings, there is impatience. There is a medical shop. There are e-mails. There is a smile out of place. There are power cuts and overnight trips. There are byes and there is a goodbye.
There are sepia memories and written records. There are two bruised hearts and so many broken dreams. There are promises never kept and words not forgotten. There is a green silk blanket.
There is all this and so much more. This is all that and so much less.

How am I to get rid of so much evidence?