When I tell
people I remember my Calcutta days, they always seem surprised, considering I
lived there until I was only seven. Sometimes it seems a little odd to
me too, that I remember certain things so clearly even after all these years. But
they’re memories that I can’t imagine ever forgetting. They were happy days –
days that I don’t want to ever forget, so I’ve probably held on to those
memories, maybe involuntarily so. I remember running to my grandfather early in
the morning and sitting on his lap in the veranda, while he smoked and we
spotted birds together. I remember going to the lake to see the ducks every
evening with him and stuffing my face into his shoulder every time he stopped
to talk to people, which was every 5 minutes. I remember how he would spoil me
with chocolates when my mother was at work and tell me stories of Robin Hood
every afternoon and fall asleep in the process. I remember racing with two of
my oldest friends, playing with them, cycling with them, and going
snail-counting with them during the monsoons. I remember how frightened I had been when a bat flew into our room while my mother was telling me a story. I remember listening to the frogs croaking in the monsoons and the owls hooting every night. I remember this one particular Holi that I had
enjoyed so much. I remember how we celebrated Diwali every year and how my
father would always keep me away from the crackers except this black snake
cracker which was basically no fun. Holi and Diwali have never been the same in
Bombay. I remember going to school in our old white Maruti 800 with my school friend
narrating the Titanic story to my dad, and suddenly screaming “SANTO!” whenever
he saw a Santro on the road. (Santros were considered fancy cars those days.)
I remember my grandmother’s flower garden and this one storm that hit and led
the huge tree in our garden to collapse. I remember my mother running with
me while she tried teaching me how to cycle without the side supports for the
first time. I remember watching Heidi while my Dad tried his utmost to feed me
before he left for work. I never liked chewing back then. I remember playing
doctor-doctor with my aunt and uncle. I see them playing the same game with
their own 6 year old son now, and it takes me back to those days. I remember
the Puri beach that my parents and I would frequent in those days. I remember
spotting my dad waiting for me, while I was in the class queue and breaking the
line and running to him. I remember how much I hated bathing and screaming my
lungs out on shampoo day. The strange thing is, I don’t remember the toys that I
had, or any of the materialistic things, except this one doll that I had- just
one. Toys and belongings don’t really make us happy or have any kind of space
in our hearts, do they? If they had meant something to me, I think I would've remembered them. I wonder if the same applies now. I’d like to think it does. We’re
all here creating memories every day and I don’t think the materialistic
pleasures we indulge in really make us happy and create memories for us. We all have
memories, some pleasant, some unpleasant. We remember incidents, places we've visited, old friends, people; how something tasted, how we felt at a certain
time, and lots of other things. Memory really is a strange and beautiful thing.
I'm not sure
how I remember all of those things, because it almost seems implausible. It was years
ago. But, I do. It’s all so vivid in my mind. I also think these are just a handful
memories in a sea of a million. They’re just a few specific events that have
held their ground and kept their place in my memory land. I hope they never
leave, because I want to always remember how I felt then - that sense of blissful
happiness, innocence and freedom(Even if there was none, the feeling was there.).
This was the lane where I used to live, where all those memories were created.
