Ash on an Old Man's Sleeve

It was nice when it rained. It reminded me of all sorts of nice smells. Like Cuticura powder.
Dadabulo's armchair needed repair. And some of the books in the library were full of silver ants. Oh no...Don Quixote too. Our favourite book.
The 42 year old record player still worked. Maybe it would sell well at some antique store. Maybe it wouldn't. I don't care. I'd keep it and listen to The Beatles, Carpenters and Cliff Richard. The only records that still worked. And Donny Osmond. But I never liked him much.
The 1975 Toyota had been sold off. It used to smell great. So did Dadabulo. Except when he came back from the hospital. There was this strong smell of disinfectant, which always made me pinch my nose. But then I grew used to it.
But that was a long time ago. Where was the box of cards, I wondered. The one he got from Sweden. The rich rosewood box, with the really worn out cards. Hours of Patience. And to think people called him impatient. Like me.
The pipes were there in the dressing table drawer. The rusted tobacco box safely held in it some my teeth, which had to be extracted at the dentists'. What a dirty clinic that was. What a waste to have brushed ten times before leaving. And then having Halls to keep my breath fresh. What a gentle doctor the dentist was though. With soft hands. It didn't hurt much. And I had my pride. Dadabulo was 100% certain I would not wail and cry like the twitchy little girl before me. I didn't even wince. And got rewarded with loads of ice cream.
He gave me my first bicycle. But it got stolen. It was red. And I remember crashing into hundreds of flower pots and falling on top of the bonnet of a moving car, while learning. What a day that was. I had sworn I'd never ride it again. But I did. And fell in love with a floppy red haired chap that I nicknamed Archie. Archie had a grey coloured scooter that refused to start in winter. And the poor boy would keep trying to warm up the engine while I stood in the verandah and stared at him lovesick. He was extremely scared of me. I think I was trying to grow my hair then.
I liked the Rollick man a lot. And nutty crunchy ice cream that Dadabulo bought for us. And the long walks with Snowy. It was so funny when Snowy farted. Dadabulo said it was a common problem with old men. But it was uproariously funny. I think sometimes Snowy seriously took offence when we giggled like that. What a photogenic dog he was. I remember crying non-stop for two whole days when he died. Dadabulo called up in the morning to tell me that, he didn't do a thing to the "stupid dog", as he liked to call him. Snowy just went to his favourite place under the Toyota in the garage and lay down to sleep. He never came out. I remember pulling him out of there on some Sundays when we tried to give him a bath. Right after the bath in the terrace, with a terrible hose pipe, he'd run down the stairs and hide under the car. He'd come out a little later covered in soot. "Stupid dog! Stupid dog!" Dadabulo would yell!

It was nice then. I didn't do much then. I'd sing and dance and act in plays. But no-one at school would know. "Rabindra sangeet? You know Bangla?"
I wasn't what I used to be then. The bright effervescent child at home. The shy, well-mannered girl at school.... Old wazzername?
Hand me a cigarette, willya? Don't you just love The Doors? Oh, so you play guitar as well? Aah, you know that poem by Eliot? No, no. Not Wasteland. Ash on an Old Man's Sleeve. No? But you must read it!
Stupid dog.