Yes, I am talking of that memory
which comes again and again
Again and still again, it comes,
humming those long forgotten songs.
Nestling snugly inside a dream, it shivers.
The gull flies overhead, was it feeling cold?
I wonder, blundering forward.
The sun was a miser hiding its gold.
A heavily clad fisherman breaks into a huge grin
as he pulls out a stout trout from the Lidder*.
“See, see, how huge it is!”
His eyes say, but my eyes are fixed on something
equally huge- a boulder.
Ah, the green thatched hut is still there.
Is it really the same? Unchanged?
Furtively, I walk forward, and slip a cold hand under the boulder.
The cottage smiles knowingly, as I pull out
a memory chunk,
[ah, it is still warm].
The fisherman had just hooked another trout.
He was happy too, sheathed in a warm smile ,
defying the cold November chill.
* Lidder is a 73 km long river in Kashmir, India