I remember.

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.