Books full of of Memories

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.