Nidhi Katoch blog

The dust of memories enters  in my room through window and doors  and settles on the bookshelf.  Even when I sweep that dust,  its scent left behind.  When I flip those dusty pages the earthy scent fills the whole room, I try hard to recognize  that fragrance,  which might be like petrichor or uneaten dryfruits in my mother's box,  The first coffee date,  or rusk in tea stall, The musty smell of those old wooden doors, behind which we all used to hide. The reminiscences of old days  come at once,  But I'm still failed to figure out that particular smell.  I keep going through those pages after a day or two, And smile on the recollections of me and you.   

"Such a dreary night !" I thought while a cold breeze passed through my face. I was waiting at the bus stop to catch the last bus to my home. It is my daily routine to go home at this time. I was traveling alone that night. There were hardly 8-9 passengers. They were all engrossed in the Television which was playing old Punjabi songs. I'm always clueless about where am I heading. Yes, I don't know where my home is. I board different buses every night to find my town, my home.  But that night was different. I knew where my home was. I eagerly wanted to reach there. I saw the moon following the bus from outside. It seemed cold and sad, without any company. I'm not a "window lover" kind of traveler. I enjoy observing people, and their activities by sitting in the corner of the room. But that night I was just not interested. Bus reached the intersection of four roads. I saw a truck coming from the opposite side of my window. Then it was all blank.  I was fee