Geographies of memory

Does there live a girl, or a woman may be, called Pushkala who sings no sooner than you tell her to, as if you pressed the play button on a cassette player. On a lazy afternoon as she enters without a knock and her mellifluous voice swallows Papa in the next room. That timid old man locating his spectacles on the table as Tiki rolls up rotis for the night. At night when Feroz reminds of Kavi Pradeep and Debu exhibits himself, do you know that tall handsome boy drinking the last of the pegs.
Not far from all of them I re-write your lines;
They happen and I see them happening.