where there were no memories.
it was like the thing they call amnesia,
a queer name, reminding me of a samoosa,
hot, puffing steam in the mouth.
all shops in this lane in this town
where they sell only antique vessels,
stolen idols and mementos that had changed many hands,
ancient padlock on each door.
and there was no signpost,
nobody to ask which way to go.
and the wind, a silent tomb.
not even the word the signpost, the way...