She threw away my gajrey.
She had cleaned out my room, and thrown out all the ‘junk’.
And among the trash, were my gajrey. My year old gajrey. with the rusted brown marigolds and the rose that had turned black, but still smelled like an October night that someone spent Rs. 150 to buy me a gajra.
Just the wrong someone, sadly.
The right one had not bothered to come.
Three gajrey. Three. And i don’t even remember the people who gave them to me.
It’s sad how i kept the flowers for memory’s sake, and forgot the faces.
People like me deserve to be hurt.