What a thing to remember
The curve of the staircase, the statuette on the landing
The way the sunlight gleams off the water past plate glass
The sepia royals that stood their ground, now vanquished
Their final resting spot, the charred cream walls.
But I remember the strangest things.
The lights of the tonga are an impatient camera blur.
Never again.

They are not the them people.
Takes two reads of the victim list to realize. The victim list. Oh.
Who’s the victim? Who’s that lady, burkha clad, knocking doors?

I forgive. I don’t forget. My bad.
Read Ashwini Bapat, the parent says. Concerned.
In the eight minutes that I squeeze in
Chopping the raw tomatoes, rolling out the dough.
Eight minutes.
But that’s another world. A story. Don’t worry.
That’s not me.
Singed once by fire.
of pretence. false feet.
I forgive. I don’t forget. My bad.
Immune.
But there’s just so much you tell an 85 year old.
Don’t worry. Never again.