the color of memories

indigo seeps into my life like a slow stain, a color that weaves its way through memories and moments. i think of my mother's sari, the way the fabric seemed to shimmer in the light, the indigo dye bleeding into the edges. and later, the summer i spent in mumbai, the indigo of the evening sky, a deep richness that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of the city. it's a color that's both melancholy and beautiful, a reminder that some things are worth holding onto, even as they slip through our fingers like sand. as i walk through the streets of pune, i catch glimpses of indigo – a child's dress, a painter's smock, a fragment of fabric caught in a tree branch – and each time, i'm taken back to a moment, a person, a feeling. it's as if the color has become a thread, weaving its way through my life, connecting disparate moments and memories. and yet, when i try to grasp it, to hold onto the thread, it slips away, leaving me with only the faintest whisper of its presence.