Sometimes I wonder how a "my" prefixed to anyone or anything changes the entire equation. The alcoholic and wife abuser, and MY father, that school dropout and MY brother, that hot woman in the hot dress and MY woman, the traffic rule breaker and MY friend, the old lecher and MY uncle....When the MY is added, the person’s bad character, sick attitude, and crime suddenly becomes smaller, insignificant, and something you can ignore, forget or forgive without a second thought. Guess, some things never ever change.

Memories are memories, nothing more nothing less but some of them linger on long after everyone and everything has moved on.

The girl with the tattoo. I was waiting for an auto that morning when I saw her coming down the same road where I was standing. An auto came, she stopped it, talked with the driver and got in. The auto sped past me but stopped a few meters ahead. She leaned out and asked me where I was going. When I told her my destination, she asked me to hop in as she was going the same way. I hesitated first, feeling a bit shy but got in after she repeated the offer. We talked a bit inside the auto, and suddenly I remember her as someone I used to see occasionally in college when I was doing my PG. I asked about her college and she confirmed it. And when I told her that I still remember the tattoo of the huge green cross on her left arm, she looked at me, rubbed her arms and told me that’s a very strange way of remembering someone. We laughed together.

I never met her again; I never asked her name, and she never asked mine. All I remember is that she was working at Radio Mirchi then, all I remember is her kohl-laden eyes, the long jet black hair, and of course, the tattoo.