Memories
It is amazing and surprising how a smell, a sound, an incident, or a person can bring back so many memories, like an over-burgeoning river breaking all dams in its innate fury and force. Recently, KJ (a fellow-blogger) had written a wonderful piece on this, perhaps slightly in a different context, but the sub-text remains the same.
In school we had these innumerable ‘boon or bane’ essays to be written (remember, “Is television a boon or bane” etc). Today, I am almost tempted to make a similar attempt at defining whether memories are good or bad for human beings… with arguments for the both sides already sharpening their wits and swords to slaughter each other’s logic down. But I shall refrain from doing any such analysis because, memories, whether rotten or rosy, are part of man’s inherent nature; and my arguing, or wasting precious ink (or let’s say, cyber space) will not solve any matter.
What I however want to emphasize on is that some reminisces often whip up a completely different emotion as to what the actual incident was. It all depends on what frame of mind we currently are in to remember those days.
Yesterday, while going to a marriage function, I had ironed my shirt myself. Inadvertently, I left the iron on, and only came to know of this once we returned after some three hours or so. This simple incident brought back huge memories of another era, another time. Years back, my father was posted in Aden (then, the capital of the erstwhile South Yemen). With no iron-man (or dhobi) available, we had to iron our clothes ourselves, and the chore invariably got divided between my sister (then unmarried) and myself, with each of us trying to shirk off this obnoxious duty, and coming up with the most fecund excuses.
Also, at that time, being a part of a small Indian community, we were invited to a lot of parties, especially when I used to go there on annual vacations. More often than not, we used to re-iron our clothes before going to the party, or dinner (a habit that continues with me still). And, it was a very irritating habit of both of us to remember of not having taken off the iron’s switch much after we had left the house…and even if we had, there was always the iota of doubt remaining, and more often than not, we would turn back some couple of kilometers to have it checked. Of course, our parents used to give us long lectures…about how unsafe it can be so, only to drill some sense of responsibility in both us siblings. Today, after so many years (almost two decades), I realize nothing burns except the pocket by leaving the iron on (and that too, because, the iron gobbles up electricity units with an appetite akin to Godzilla, and in an electricity-starved city like Delhi, numbers do matter!)
Yesterday’s mistake brought back all those arguments between my sister and myself in the back seat of the car, blaming each other for not checking the switch properly, or as to who was the last one to have used the machine. It brought to my lips a small half-wistful smile. Alas, those fun-filled days can never return ever!
Aden also brought back some more memories. In 1985, there was a civil war. I do not remember now which factions were fighting and for what gain…but I do recall that one fine January morning, we saw tanks walking past our house, with full artillery on display. By that evening, we had bullets showering into our house, much like the monsoons of India dripping into the weakening ceilings. Our father was away some eight kilometers away in his house. For the next thirteen days, we did not see him, and we had to be holed up in the basement with a large battery of Yemeni families, as the situation worsened. Those days were tough, exacerbated by the fact that we did not know how and when the fight will end up, and also that our father was away in office with some petrol tanks leaked up on the way.
Those petrifying thirteen days of war were terrible, and very strenuous for all of us. Yet, after two decades, when the iron-incident, brought this memory back also, I was not scared or unhappy or angry or shaken up. I continued to smile, and tried to recall each of those 13 days in detail…and a lot of time passed in that, and I felt happy after reliving that time.
Yes, it was an experience, even though tough, but still something that I could think of, something that I could look back upon.
I guess it’s these memories (and the thoughts I think) that make me a unique man that I am.
In Mann (another forgettable flick with a couple of interesting scenes), a young Manisha Koirala remarks to an old Sharmila Tagore that the place where the latter lives is beautiful, and even wants to stay back. Sharmila Tagore admonishes Manisha for doing so. Her argument: This place is beautiful, because there are Sharmila’s (and her late husband’s) recollections attached to it. It’s a good place to sit back and enjoy those memories. But Manisha, has yet to make her memories. So, once she does so, she can create her own Eden.
Like the young girl in the film, we all have to make our memories, our own beautiful memoirs, and that will make us a complete individual.
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