Of Love and Loss

Of Love and Loss

Titli Devi mooed but nobody took notice. Chewing her morning curd, she swatted at the flies with her long, bushy tail- an appendage of pride and purpose! She bellowed again, offended by the lack of attention offered to her previous grunts. Harilal merely shuffled on the charpai, placed next to her. In the summers of Belwa, a small hamlet on the outskirts of Bihar, the open courtyard was Harilal’s favourite spot to spend the hot nights, with his Titli Devi in close company.

The bovine was a gift from his wife’s brother, presented to him when the floods had washed away his fields. Milking was the next enterprise he ventured into. Titli Devi, the buffalo with a large, imposing pair of horns atop her head and lips with a permanent pout, was the apple of Harilal’s eyes. Her shaggy, black fur shone like the thousand splendid suns glimmering in the sapphire blue sky! 

(Okay, a hyperbole, but to Harilal, she is no less than a sparkling diamond discovered in the mines of adversities.)

Titli Devi grunted one last time before slapping Harilal with her object of pride and purpose. 


He fell on the cracked cow dung plastered floor. 

“Sorry, my darling! I didn’t hear you moaning. What is it that bothers my snow-white?” Lifting himself from the floor, now sporting a new crack due to the fall, Harilal kissed the bovine on her silky smooth forehead. His bad breath offended her and she squirmed, her tail swaying in disgust. 

(Dare you raise a brow or object to this eternal love story, lest Titli Devi and Harilal slap you, in unison!)

Harilal loved Titli, even more than his only son, Prakash. In the hope of begetting a torchbearer, Harilal had worshipped gazillion Hindu gods. Not only worshiped, but also bribed them with gold ornaments and to a few, he had even promised a luxurious five room temple! But when blessed with the lass he kept delaying the deal like a stuck re-development project proposed by urban builders. Citing the floods, he had slipped a gold-plated chain and a small silver replica of the temple to the real temple authorities. 

It was Prakash who had to bear the wrath of the angry gods. 

(Why, you ask? For obvious reasons.)

He was a product bought on ‘pay one rupee now and take home your prized possession’ offer but the monthly EMIs were never paid. In sharp contrast to his name, Prakash ushered no light to the family name. Having mastered in English Literature, he yearned to be a writer.

“Isn’t speaking enough that you now wish to write about it, too!” Harilal’s eyes blazed with anger when Prakash announced his decision to pursue writing as a career. Harilal couldn’t even call Prakash a black sheep, for black was a celebrated colour, thanks to his Titli! He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a traitor who had deceived his father by denouncing the family byre. 

“My son is the next CBO of our byre!”Harilal had proclaimed, carrying the little bewildered Prakash on his back

“Harilal, its CEO-Chief Executive Officer!” Adubiously learned gentleman had tried to correct him.

“Oh, that must be in your silly city life, not here. Prakash is my CBO- Chief Buffalo Officer!” 

Harilal’s confidence had nearly landed the man on a rickety hospital bed. With this confidence, how could Harilal bear to hear about his son’s career choices? He felt he was being trampled under the stampede of a hundreds bisons. His striped dhoti cowered under the effect of his thunderous belly as Harilal showered his son with the choicest of expletives.

Harilal’s dhoti had no companion in form of a shirt or a vest. Sun or rain, the bare chest scampered around the entire village.With audacity of Arnold Schwarzenegger! Shame was an emotion Harilal felt deeply over his son’s attitude but never over the coiled curls of his chest hair that intertwined like wild creepers. As Harilal shouted his frustrations out, Prakash stared at his father’s chest and suddenly spotted an over-grown hair curl dancing to the rhythm of Harilal’s oscillating breast. How dare this weed of hair sprout after the generous massages to his robust chest and offend its upbringing! 

Somewhere, Prakash identified with the dancing daffodil, which swallowed the sunshine but was offensive to its roots. 

This thought filled his heart with pleasure and it too danced with the curly-haired daffodil. A sly smile mushroomed on Prakash’s face. His mind swayed to the steps of the chest hair. Left and right. Up and down. The over-grown curl moving elegantly as a trained Kathakali dancer. 

Tathaiyatathaiya… noticing Prakash’s gaze affixed to his chest, Harilal, for the first time in his life, covered it with a gamcha. Apprehensive that his son, along with profession, had changed his inclinations, he dashed inside for the safety of a vest. 

(After all, one cannot display one’s treasure trove of dancing daffodils to just anyone. So what if that anyone happens to be your blood?)

From that day onwards, Harilal’s affection for Titli increased by leaps and bound. She, at least, followed her lineage and gave frothy, thick milk. Titli was a by-product of a white revolution, her father being a NRI stud and her mother, a desimurrah! Milkshakes felt ashamed over her milk’s consistency causing Harilal’s chest to blush. No, not his cheeks for he hadn’t any. All that was left in name of cheeks was a bulge, competing with his belly. Stupid, cheeky overgrowths didn’t realise their limits. Stuck in the swarthy face, they aimed for the skies. 

As Harilal expelled profanities to a shrivelling Prakash, Titli Devi grunted several times, showcasing her pearly whites. Prakash clenched his fist and curled his lips, as if warning her, “When this man is in a cattle expo, you are solely at my merciless mercy!” 

Titli was like a troublemaking sibling to Prakash- the most studious, first ranker of the class who was born only to raise Harilal’s chest hair with pride. As a lanky, fussy, malnourished child (not out of negligence but out of stubborn food choices), Prakash was perpetually compared with his elder, healthier sister, Titli, who thrived on grass and grain without any fuss. Silently, she ruminated over the day’s happenings and swayed her pipe of pride and purpose when Prakash was admonished for being a picky eater.

Once this organ of pride and purpose had turned out to be the organ of agony when a young Prakash had attached a burning fire-cracker to its end. Frantically, she had jumped and kicked the bamboo stick tethering her. On that auspicious occasion, Prakash had invited the entire village to enjoy a humongous buffalo with rear on fire! Eventually, as part of the ‘buy one get one free offer’, the villagers experienced the joy of watching Prakash’s buttocks being smacked, too. 

(All that begins disastrous ends disastrously!)

Other times, Titli decided to be the organiser of a mega event. She, with great care, expelled her olive green ordure on Prakash’s carelessly placed poetry sheets. Like an enraged bull, he whacked her with a stick only to be rewarded in double. 

(Remember, after all it was always ‘buy one get one offer’ in Harilal’s house!)

Such was the bitter-sour relationship between the non-biological siblings, like brother and sister from different mothers!

There were many a cattle Harilal cherished in his shed but Titli was the closest to his heart. She had come to him at a time when his livelihood was affected. The floods wiping out his crops and dignity, alike. Barely a year old, this gift from his brother-in-law was meant to be a mockery of offerings bestowed up on him. Titli was a meek calf whose mother had left for heavenly abode after birthing her. Somehow, she had survived the harsh winters.

“We both have to fend and feed ourselves.” Harilal had caressed her pyramidal brow and whispered into her pink, little ears. She had licked in response; an omnipresent assurance. Jealousy had raised its ugly head in a five-year old Prakash watching this public display of affection between man and his calf. While Harilal was already ready to snuggle with her, Prakash made elaborate plans to harass and hurt her. But hailing from an obstinate breed, she had survived all trials and tribulations.

Titli was Harilal’s lucky mascot. After her arrival, the jobless man was inundated with offers of work. Slowly and gradually, he bought more and more cattle, leading to his bread and butter and ghee and cheese. Twice, the local bulls mated with her producing hybrid offspring. Titli cherished her new-found motherhood but didn’t wince even once when the time came to bid them goodbye. Like a proud mother, who sacrifices her progeny for the cause of nation, Titli, too, had bravely allowed her sons to be sold. Though post it, she refused to touch food. No grunts and bellows even after multiple provocations from Prakash. Harilal, too, had not slept the whole night, keeping company with the silently grieving mother. The next day, she was back in action, chewing and ruminating her curd, to continue the lifecycle.

One individual but she donned multiple hats. Once, thieves attacked Harilal’s humble abode. The house was beaming with valuables and priceless possessions. It being winter, the family was tucked snugly under the thickest blankets and Harilal’s deepest of snores. No sound overpowered his sleeping symphony. To make matters worse, Prakash forgot to latch the front door. Taking advantage of the situation, thieves crept into the courtyard and advanced towards the comatose house. But bad luck clouded their stars. They weren’t aware of one faithful person patrolling the area. Titli’s vigilance made any CCTV camera run for its money. As the Ms.Sherlock Hooves heard foreign footsteps on her motherland, she dropped dung cakes like the bombs in the Hiroshima and Nagasaki attacks. One of the less careful burglars slipped on the auspicious excreta, and let out a wail. Hearing him, other two rushed to stifle his screams. The black beauty, camouflaged in the moonless night, kicked the two on their organ of pride and purpose. Thus, a burglar alarm was raised by none other than the burglars themselves. From snoring to roaring for help, Harilal gathered the villagers and beat the wounded men black and blue. The green dung had done wonders.

“My Titli Devi is the strongest buffalo any living world could beget!”  Harilal harped on, praising his sweetheart and built a Great Wall of appreciations.

“She not only caught the thief, but also punished him with lifetime of impotency. Double justice served!” Harilal on many occasions was heard boosting and applauding her laurels, much to Prakash’s disgust. So, blind was Harilal’s love that he failed to see Prakash’s university rankings.

“Did you nab a thief? Or at least a small time pickpocket? No, right? Then why should I value you? You want an illiterate to value mere paper certificates that teach you no lessons of life?” The words were muffled by noise of the babul-chewing teeth but their intentions were crystal clear, like Titli’s sparkling teeth!

Harilal was a man who underwent several adversities, much more than days and nights one saw in a lifetime. 

(Oh, again a hyperbole? Okay, so he faced the wrath of destiny several times, only to stand up strong.)

His parents were killed in an accident before they could get bring another Harilal (or Harilali) in this world. Since then, he had toiled on his ancestral land. No emotions or attractions, whatsoever. Few sensible villagers, taking sympathy, helped him to get married to a farmer’s daughter from the neighbouring village. The new bride brought wealth and wisdom to his simple life. The hovel was refurbished into a cottage with some heavy loans. Little Prakash was born and named after the streetlight that was erected next to their humble cottage. Again, penury stuck and the floods washed away his earnings. Like after every spell of rain, sunshine follows, here too, Titli came grunting in his life. All seemed well until Harilal’s wife died from an unidentified ailment. 

Both Titli and Prakash grew up without the tender touch of a mother. But Titli Devi still had a caring father. For Prakash, Harilal was a paper father. Both were cold and frigid in their ways, with one at Alaska while the other at Antarctica! Titli was the equator, where the heated arguments and torrential rains occurred. She stood like a great divide between the warring men. 

Prakash’s hatred for Titli was deep-rooted, difficult to wash off like the footprints on moon. There were times he contemplated killing her or sabotaging her image in his father’s eyes. Since Prakash was not the destiny’s chosen buffalo, success was doubtful. In fact, after the robbery incidence was blown out of proportion, the villagers requested for her dung to apply around their houses at night.

“Titli Devi’s dung- the most slippery. Catch thieves, loitering husbands and eavesdropping neighbours- brown-handed!” Went the auto-rickshaw, squawking on its loudspeaker, attracting people like flies on the dung. 

Prakash was forced to announce the jingle, “Buy a kilo Get a kilo free. FREE. FREE.FREE!” with the last ‘free’, Prakash had a fervent desire to go on a killing spree. Only way to vent was kill the flies dancing on the golden dung. Soon, the waste was selling like hot cakes. The sheer number of people buying the cakes scared the shit out of robbers, and their allied communities. Grapevine even suggested the offal to be scared dung.

“It keeps away evil spirits from your homes.” A lady was heard educating her friend. “Now my husband religiously comes home before ten, lest he falls in the dung and makes a joke out of himself.”

Sadly, Prakash was the butt of all jokes. 

Why? Imagine a literature graduate made to write jingles on buffalo dung. Samples such as:

One… two… three… four…

Titli Devi’s dung removes problems from core.

Five… six… seven… eight…

Smear it on your gate.

Nine… ten…

Let inside your home, prosperity rain!


O la… O la… O la la… O la la…

Titli Devi is our fantasy.

Ru la la… Ru la la…

Buy the dung and reach ectasyyyyyyyyyy!

(Now don’t you frown at those gems for Prakash is under parental torture.)

As the cakes’ popularity grew, the demand also grew. The sales displayed an upward line. Back home, Titli Devi was fed with the choicest of fermented fodder to beget greasy, pulpy, murk. She had a shed all to herself, and no machines were attached to her udders. All she was expected to do was eat and expel at speed of light. Special masseuses were hired to brush and polish her hide so that it could shine like thousand splendid suns. Her glowing aura and blissful dung elated Harilal every single day. He was often overheard, singing. 

“O la la… O la la…. Titli Devi is my fantasy”

Titli Devi’s popularity escalated and she was granted a PAN card and Aadhar card with a special mention in Harilal’s ration card. Mothers started referring to her in their diurnal admonishments. 

“Work hard like Titli Devi” or “Brighten the family name like Titli Devi did”. 

Some parents lamented having biological children.

“What use are these Sponge bobs? It’s better to adopt a calf. At least its shit is useful!”

Titli Devi, thus, was the next Zuckerberg immersing shameful FACEs in dung.

If this was not enough to add the five-star status to her life, an infant completely covered herself in the dung her parents bought. The baby almost smothered herself. The shocked parents saved the gasping infant just in time, only later to bless the buffalo profusely. 

“Harilal, your Titli Devi is like God for us. Her dung cured my daughter’s skin disease. The one she suffered while in the womb!” The grateful parents were overwhelmed with Titli Devi’s sweet gesture. Harilal’s joys knew no bounds and he celebrated his, and with, buffalo for days together.

Again, to Prakash’s dismay, this news spread like wildfire and he was wilder than ever. Patients with skin diseases now frequented Harilal’s home as if Titli Devi was some Charak or Hippocrates. Portions of dung were doled out in glass vials as Harilal was a staunch believer of eco-friendliness. Part of his disgust for Prakash’s written word and education came from wastage of paper and trees. Empty vials were asked to be brought back or else new vials would be charged a rupee extra. Faith or blind faith, whatever it seemed to be, the villagers were all busy singing Titli Devi’s praises. Doctors and quacks, too, queued at Harilal’s to test the efficacy of the excrement that was putting the banner in their business. Slowly and gradually, the word traversed beyond the boundaries of Belwa. 

Media thronged the cottage to capture a glimpse of the magical buffalo in their ordinary lenses. Titli Devi’s hooves were pedicured. Horns were polished. Custom-made coats stitched for her. Bright yellow marigolds adorned her jet-black neck. At times, she resembled a wedding taxi, waiting for the processions to start – bright-yellow and jet-black!

Women swathed her in the finest of their chunris while men guarded their Angelina Jolie from the Pirates of Caribbean.

(With cow comes the dung and with fame comes the fallacy of followers. You never know who the crow in peacock feathers is!)

This madness flabbergasted Prakash. His education and logical reasoning conflicted with the amplified affections around. More than sibling rivalry, he now feared serious legal action could be filed against his father. He could be penalised if found guilty of throwing dung in people’s eyes! Prakash was desperate to bring the curtains down on this raving madness. A scientific investigation was the only logical and rational way to do it. By converging the dung’s mediocrity to people’s notice, might end this silliness.

One, not so fine, morning, a team from the Foods and Drugs Department arrived to collect the samples of the dung. A vigilant citizen had insisted on an inquiry. 

(You don’t have to be informed the identity of the vigilant citizen.)

Prakash grinned wickedly from ear to ear as the officials warned Harilal to suspend the sale of dung till further intimation. 

“If you don’t follow the orders, we will confiscate this animal. Better be cautious!”

The team left but not before spreading glum in the air. Till date, Harilal always imagined that Prakash’s envy was like a benign creeper, craving for attention. When did this creeper turn into Poison Ivy?

“Prakash, whatever is the outcome of this study, Titli is and will indefinitely remain my favourite progeny. She has stood by me in many thick and thins of life. What she has undergone to keep the hearth warm, you might never acknowledge. Her end is my end.” 

Parents and ultimatums are parallel universes. We all have to survive in. How could poor Prakash be left out? Harilal had slipped deep into the dung and for Prakash, the retrieval was difficult.

Days passed in contemplation of an agonising future. Harilal closed his doors for the world, literally! He had shut himself in Titli Devi’s shed for fear of the inevitable. Only he was aware what they would do to his Titli Devi, if taken away from him. Nightmares of a hide-less Titli shrieking in pain haunted his sleep. Her leather dazzling as purses and belts rose his bile. Her beheaded body shivering in pools of crimson blood, waiting for death, stabbed his conscience. Where had he failed as a father to Prakash? His school and university fees were a result of Titli’s sacrifice. 

Her oblation must not be forgotten.

There had to be a way to teach Prakash a lesson, a lesson that his Shakespeare and Frost had not taught him. A lesson of empathy, a lesson of endearment.

Titli Devi, too, wallowed in her master’s grief. Her dewy eyes reflected his sorrow. Her bushy tail had now developed alopecia, worrying as a daughter, for her father’s future. Food and fodder both lay untouched by its benevolent consumers.

Finally, the fast was broken in pomp and pride as the Food and Drugs department declared Titli Devi’s dung as medicinal over magical. The special fodder she ate and the number of times she ruminated it, paved way for the dung becoming a breakthrough in the world of medicine especially the herbal one. Pharmaceutical companies now persuaded Harilal for patenting her dung in their creams and lotions. From being the girl-next-door to befitting as a national treasure, Titli Devi’s journey was commendable. She was a classic example of deceived by kin and applauded by masses. 

(Don’t they say, if something is meant for you, the whole universe conspires to grant you, your wish? One must truly believe, behave and banter as if the goal is achieved, but definitely not without ruminating it like Titli Devi, the buffalo!)

Harilal though had never envisioned this, was befuddled with the turn of events. Without a gamcha, proud of his hairy heritage dancing like daffodils, Harilal perched on his charpai, signed contracts and gave lengthy interviews. Newspapers and magazines were flooded with the happy father-daughter’s images. At the behest of the villagers, the humble duo posed for selfies and endorsed local brands. 

(You must be thinking our Prakash must have joined the bonhomie. Ironically, he was the one blessed with a thick buffalo skin. Not very easy to cut through. Was he again besmirched in the whole story? Nah! Not this time.)

Lady luck smiled broadly on him. This time he was adored for giving Titli Devi a platform to showcase her talent. He was tempted to repeat the childhood folly of tying firecrackers to Titli Devi’s bushy tail but better sense prevailed and he abandoned the idea. Yet, the storm had not settled- the storm in a dung cup! 

He fumed, and fanned various evil ideas to end this for once and all. Only courage deceived him.

On the other side of the fulcrum, someone suggested to Harilal that a biography should be written on his beautiful buffalo.

“Harilalji, what better way to have your buffalo immortalised in history than having a book written in her name; her story, her struggles, her rise to fame. What an inspiration she would be to our children!” 

(He must have been definitely an insane with no hopes of recovery. Don’t you think so? But Titli Devi will prove us wrong here, too.)

Harilal was enamoured with the idea. He awarded the villager with two kilos of Titli Devi’s dung. The happy adviser danced his way home- sometimes on two legs, sometimes on four- his special tribute to Titli Devi!

Back home, Harilal was touched by villager’s prophecy of Titli Devi’s name being engraved in the history. If Maharana Pratap’s Cheetak could be amar, why couldn’t his Titli Devi find an exciting place in the boring history? But who would appreciate his Titli Devi as he did? Who could portray her as the noble figure she was? None could demystify this enigmatic relationship. 

For days he pondered over this proposal, mulled over the idea while incessantly scratching his belly. As the belly was a treasure trove of ideas! He cursed himself for not having learned the written word. How he wished thumbprints could tell the story of a benevolent being!

Scratch, scratch, scratch… an idea gurgled in his belly. He rushed to relieve himself as if relief was the long, awaited diarrhoea. Once out of the ‘sauchalay’ his ‘soch’ sprouted an idea.

“Prakash. Prakash. Prakash…” He ran with the tumbler in one hand as if he had an Eureka moment. The Indian Archimedes found his son in absolute glum, buried in the written word. For the first time, he was proud of Prakash’s pen that moved swiftly over the ruled paper.

“Prakash, my son.” Harilal was panting from exertion and excitement. The ‘my son’ sent Prakash on high alert. His antennae twitched, searching for the danger signal. 

“Prakash, my son, you know how much I love you.”

(Certainly, we all know. Smirk.)

“Son, I wish you being a writer…”

(Did he really acknowledge Prakash as a writer?)

Prakash stood in anticipation of the demand that was going to engulf him, if not strangulate. Hem-hawking, clearing his throat, Harilal finally brought out the topic, with plenty of phlegm.

“Prakash, our Titli has reached pinnacles of stardom. I want you to take her story across the continents. Let your words glorify! Please write a book on her.”

To Prakash, it felt as if Harilal had spat the phlegm from his chest on to his face.

After a long pause,

“Will you?” Harilal’s eyes begged.

Time stood still like a haunted fort stretching across hectares of land. It seemed like for eons. no the spoken word was heard. The earth skipped a rotation while Prakash’s head spun like the globe. He was resigned to the fact that his father had lost his mind. But insanity? This was ridiculously insane.


Finally, a reply.

“Prakash, please try and understand. You have known Titli Devi since she was a baby. Don’t turn down this dying man’s declaration.”

(Dying? Really?)

Parents and emotional blackmails are two sides of the same Victorian coin.

“This is not possible. UTTER NONSENSE! I’m not sabotaging my image for that idiotic animal.”

“Prakash, mind your language! If you don’t write this book, I will be forced to take an extreme step.” Prakash could see that extra grown belly hair (our daffodils) quivering in anger.


He still dared.

“Like, I will disown you from our ancestral property!”

The verdict straight out of a Bollywood flick nauseated Prakash. Something had to be done. He couldn’t let the mad man squander his earnings on an idiot animal. Maybe, the book would prove to be a tool to malign Titli Devi’s image. 

“How will the illiterate man anyways know?” This thought let the ink flowing and the story rolling. On the charpai, the duo sat discussing the to-be historic figure-Titli Devi. In their close vicinity, she settled, approving and disapproving the incidents with her grunts and snouts.

“Once upon a time.” Harilal started from his inception days rather than Titli Devi’s, from the thundering belly being in his mother’s belly.

“Titli. Bapu… Titli Devi. We are talking about her.” Prakash had to frequently bring the derailed train back on tracks. 

“Oh, how I remember she pranced like a deer-all fresh from birth and naive to the surroundings. The innocence still drips with her saliva.” If Harilal could write, he would have definitely overpowered his son.

(Indeed, we are saved.)

“Her baby feet danced in my courtyard like makkan floating on whey.”

The moronic similes were giving Prakash a headache.

Bapu, please cut the crap. Control the overflowing drains. Tell me why you want to write a book on her?”


A question he had never seriously thought about. In life, we are desirous of things without knowing the ‘if’ and ‘why’ of it. There is this sudden urge that seeks instant gratification, instant relief. We unknowingly fall in love with an idiosyncrasy, and immerse ourselves into it till it becomes the sole purpose of our survival. In the deeper realms of our subconscious, this love foams over every beating cell. But we aren’t furious with it. We allow the misty intrusion to capture and captivate our thumping heart. We allow its rule and aristocracy to overpower our logical thinking.

Titli Devi, though, was never the rule or aristocracy yet she occupied a colossal part of Harilal’s existence.

“Why you want to write a book on her?” This question transported Harilal to the days when a young calf mourned her mother, when she desired the sweet milk and comfort of an udder. The question took him to the months when a young Titli Devi couldn’t be tamed for mating. Harilal’s economy was falling. He was failing as a father to support the basic needs of his son. No mating meant no milk while no milk meant no money.

One day he wept, begged and prostrated himself at Titli Devi’s feet. He pleaded her to co-operate with the veterinary who offered a sum for multiple embryo transfer. Grasping her feet, he cried so that Prakash’s education could be continued. Something stirred within the animal, and she allowed the surgery. Later, she gracefully allowed her calves to be sold for meat and tanning. Being a hybrid breed, her dead progeny brought money that kept Harilal’s progeny hale and hearty. Like a strong woman to support her household, Titli Devi sacrificed her dreams.

These memories found very few words. Harilal rubbed and petted Titli Devi’s pink scars. The memories gave him goose skin. The belly hair stood as if giving a standing ovation to the tolerant animal. Harilal hugged his love, and she in turn gave a low grunt.

(Now you know why he wanted to dedicate a book to her.)

For Prakash, the revelation was a kind of awakening, rising from the abyss of false pride and prejudice. Years of hatred melted away with the dung. The book was now the sole purpose of his life. He, too, hugged his distraught sister and she slapped him with her organ of pride and purpose! 

Sibling love you see.

All done and said, we never thought what if Titli Devi would like to add a preface to her biography. Imagine what she would she. Maybe something like this,

‘We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget. We forget the loves and the betrayals alike, forget what we whispered and what we screamed, forget who we were. Don’t we?’ -Yours Mooing Titli Devi

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