Evocation The pillows on my bed Are not stuffed with cotton. They are stuffed with My mother’s old sarees And lots of other childhood memories. The picture hanging there on the wall Is still full of vigour and charm. The nail hammered into the wall Ten years ago with precision Appears rusty yet very strong Unlike decaying minds And constipated thoughts. The flower vase gifted To my aunt by us Is a part of the soil now In their backyard. It hasn’t lost its shape Just the colour has faded And scratches have deepened.