The wristwatch I lost on the very first year of wearing one is now a vintage. I find an advertisement online selling it, albeit don’t buy.
Buying it for a sum of newfangled money seems absurd. Not possessing it feels right – the wound of loss will keep the memory alive.
I tell you, “Perhaps it is the one I had, my uncle’s gift, not expensive, but just enough to make my aunt sigh. Perhaps it has a few strands of my adolescent hairs caught in its bracelet.”
You laugh and say, “You are both absurd and vintage.” Some nights you wind up me. My heart ticks. Other nights I stay in a box cushioned with velvet.




Kushal Poddar  words and picture



Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India

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