There are these things, "Memories".
They are one surreal concept. Existing by their end , by their previous existence.
They are there because they are not there anymore . Keeping a part of Life ,breathing in breaths of someone.Living in ones life....Like a parasite.
Kali walked , in oblivion to her pathetic life, around the dusty market of kamala chauk. Every day.Every night.One could see her almost any time, if one wanted to. Small kids of the local had their story. They were convinced of her being a dark witch and would stop making noise, if their mothers threatened them with her name. She got her name by her sun burnt , muddy, dusty, and dirty dark skin. With her age touching half way to death , no one had a time to look at her carefully and see, a beauty corrupted by sun, dust , time, and memories.
You could see her smiling, laughing and crying as you pass to buy some bread or milk. But who had time to read her, when she was insane in very obvious way? Kali might very well be insane, but her memories were alive. Living each day, each night.Growing tall and strong. Dwelling between things that happened, and things that did not. Memories had taken a place where good made her cry and bad made her laugh, hysterically.
Though kids at times mocked her, and dogs at times chased her ; there were few old men who never looked at her, even by mistake. Even when she was the most visible abnormality in the surrounding.
They had forgiven themselves. So had everyone else , who mattered. All had been rationalised . All they had to do was to switch off their television , every time there was a riot in news.
For they had their own memories. Of the times when they were young. Of the times, they were angry. Of the times when Kali was a young woman. Newly married , dusky ,pretty , smiling. When Kali had a name.
When memories were yet to form.