Places they never return to

It is 15th June.

I remember monsoons.

Rain on white shoes.

The smell of new books.

The choir.

A song.

Something about nuclei and electrons.

I don't remember exactly.

A small packet of Munch.

Funny, because I don't even eat chocolates anymore.

And yet, in a different country, I still find myself looking for a packet of Munch.

"The world outside is indeed different."

Thank you for telling me that.

No one else had the courage to.

Meeting new people.

My life taking a different direction.

Ten years pass.

And I begin to regret a decision.

But wait.

Memories come rushing back.

I hold them tightly, both fists clenched.

Link it.

Please, connect it, I tell myself.

Tracing back...

Ten years isn't that far away, is it?

And finally, I am there.

Or perhaps,

I am here.

No more regrets.

I would not have these memories had I chosen another path.

The monsoons.

The white shoes.

The books.

The song.

The people.

Even the packet of Munch.

That song?

That song is on loop.

And suddenly, I understand,

Art has a way back.

Some people are art.

They leave pieces of themselves,

in places they never return to.

And that kind of Art,

That art outlives,

It always survives.

Dedicated to Mrs. Suma Mathew,

who taught me that the world is ,indeed, a real place.