Dust

Particles surround me as I ride on the back of a bicycle. I know the rider, but I can't see his face, can't find his name in the jumble of words that is my mind. We ride along pastures anew, cattle grazing on the side, as the fine dust particles stick to every inch of my body; from my hair to my slipper-clad toes. I can taste it, all of its granular, gritty, and violent details. It rubs me the wrong way. Why am I donned in a sari from the old days? Not draped over my left shoulder like my mother wore it, but tucked in the front over my right. My hair slicked back in a low bun, now rough to the touch and greasy due to the journey. We ride along thatched huts, coal smoking in the fire pits, men walking home from the mines, their faces slackened and dirty, dusty. The womenfolk swatting away flies, the little pests, as they languidly land on the chapatis, rubbing their limbs together as if preparing for an appetising meal. We ride to what appears to be a dark cave, we are at the entrance and something looms. We halt, he dismounts and I jump to save myself from falling, but I fall. I can no longer see his back, I fall. Inside the cave, darkness surrounds me as I fall. My heart jumps in my throat, I can no longer breathe, I see nothing. I wake up with a jolt. I was there, behind him. On his bicycle. I no longer remember. I don't remember his face, I don't recall his name. Like dust, the memory fades.