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Reading through, past “And life teaches you nothing” was opening the sluice gates to a flood of flashes of my toy car in the loft, half torn glove in the scooter garage, pale pencil colour sketches of what I still call and believe to be a bird, my first guitar………. Then poops the beaming angel face of mom, who treasured it all through me, growing from toothless crib-set bundle to a bearded self-involved six footer, involved and wearing the involved appearance of pursuing studies. Reading this article, I wonder if she still holds to worthless handmade nappies for the generation next. I never have done this till now. After every class the books and note books disappeared, some flew as catapult airplanes out of my window in celebration, and some went to a junior student at school, after mom would snatch them out from me. I never had use of a torn glove, but that, its exhibition always brought replacements. All sketches on walls or paper were drawn and forgotten. Recollection of having done them resurrects inspecting mom’s worthless treasure. Had she not, I possibly would have lost their impressions memoir. She does as she loves me, her treasure trove, I honour it. What about him, ah yes Dad, who, if her’s were less, ploughed in a trunk full of books and notes with the arrival of offer letter to me from SPJIMR. The ones he made at business school. Wonder if he did it for his reference, or he now that he has no use of it he insists on inheritance. Cunning, his point of boast to me, “Son this is how you do it”. Surprise to me is, he also holds on to. While he has held on to his scribbles for me to see, and inherit, I do not know what else is in his furrow. May be his last golf club set, or the waterman. Good he does not have a Rolex, so it doesn’t bring in great expectations. I have never held on to, I don’t know why. While love prevailed, love letters never. Short texts, long conversations and posts confine to volatile electronic memory. Library, a tranquil hideout, boroughs in phone. I wonder, what will be the form of worthless treasures of tomorrow, solid state, enough to kindle the aftertaste of a syrupy Popsicle. Or will they be bland waiting for push of button to travel anywhere anytime, beyond the lids of the rusty big black steel box.

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