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 I walk into this room and give it my touch. Keep the crystal ashtrays  that belonged to baba and brought in ma's dressing table seat, match a favorite family heirloom, an armchair. 

How these pieces remain while people are gone. 
What stories they would tell you... 
Of generations,  time and perspective. 
I remember my mother sitting on that seat, getting dressed at our Lansdowne Rd house and my grandmother reading, reclining on that chair. 
Houses, places, people I have lost count of changes. I remain a gypsy, I feel I have no home. Probably that's why I love moving, experimenting, traveling, and making a nook anywhere. 
And then I walk  into this room, give a twist to memory and feel maybe, I should make this home. 
And feel old and ready to let go. 

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