So, she began to pack. Her father smiled as he finally saw her cupboard door shut completely. She missed the colour that oozed out of it, but shrugged.
Then she began sorting -- a small embroidered denim purse had old ticket stubs for Ab tak Chappan and seven of his unsigned cards. They were funny cartoon cards because he knew she liked them. One for the first time they fought. A couple for Valentines Day that came with the flowers he sent, because he knew she wasn't completely honest when she said she hated the idea that "you had to prove you love someone on one day" or "flowers are such a waste of money and they die anyway".
There was the pink hair straightener that didn't work any longer. It was from the time when he helped her dye her hair from the overexposed orange to brown before Christmas mass. And then straightened the crazy frizzed nest on her head in deliberate measured and patient movements. She looked nice that night he said... carried off the saree very well.
Then the bottle of fake Gucci perfume he'd bought only because it had glitter that formed a perfectly even film on her coffee-coloured skin.
The fuschia lingerie, a size too big, which he bought her because he wanted to get her something special but was too embarrassed to go into 'those' shops. That she wore anyway and said she loved with the most honest look that he completely saw through.
The ugly pendant she broke off a decent looking chain just to make it wearable -- a gift. that had now turned into individual pieces of glass beads, metal medallions and links.
" What's all this junk," the mother said. "You better throw it out before the garbage lady comes."
The lady came and went.
Suddenly, it was time to leave. The 'junk' lay there. She looked and left. A box it went into. She sealed it shut with layers of tape. 'Fragile' she scrawled on the top in her green marker.
There's some baggage you just can't leave behind.
