Between who you were and who you are now, there are stories. I pull out old memories like brittle yellow notes from forgotten files. KGF railway quarters where steam trains whistled through mining tunnels. Childhood gifts lost at school and slaps that still ring in the ears. Brothers Brother who went abroad on father's retirement money and never came back. Fathers pedaling bicycles uphill, breathing mysteries into your neck. Gardeners with cataracts who drank themselves to death. Anglo-Indian Santas walking empty colony streets with sacks full of gifts and nowhere to go. Raw. Direct. Unflinching. These voices remember what others forgot-the railway workers, the war veterans, the invisible younger brothers, the loyal motorcycles, the adopted uncles hit by buses. Moments from 1960s India that shaped a generation. KGF mining colonies. Mylapore ancestral homes. Santhom beach at sunset. The Himalayas where everything condenses into truth. This is memoir as witness. Loss as resistance. Memory as an act of love. For those who grew up in railway colonies and ancestral homes. For those who watched people vanish and objects remain. For the diaspora who left and the ones who stayed. For those who remember. For those who refuse to forget. "Remember / Stars and dust last / You don't."