Random thoughts

There are things that we enjoy doing. There are moments we like to hold on to. There are faces we prefer to remember. And there are places we like to revisit. 

There are phrases we like to hear, over and over again. The self obsessed woman likes to be told “You are beautiful”. As if with each repetition the fact becomes stronger. How many times has your dearest one said, “I love you” ? Yet, each time, the words make the heart go crazy. What is it that someone said? Yes, the ringtone of the heart echoes the words. 

Some scents just linger. Like the scent of a new book; the rush of emotions that dawns with the profound narrations, the feelings hidden in those black words. Although a person who is least bothered with books will be unable to realize this. The tears that well up when the author describes something close to the heart. The smile that unknowingly plays on the lips when the plot turns favourable. And the skipping of the beat, like the time when I stood on the last page of the “First Among Equals” and wondered who became the President.

Then the scents that we associate with people who are or were close to us..The smell of the newborn baby when the young mother holds it close to her bosom, the smell of the cigarette, freshly smoked, that reminds me of my father….

And moments? Well, do they really fade? We may choose to lock them up in some forgotten corner of our memory but how can we erase them? Good, bad and the ugly, as they say, all remain with us to make us the person that we are today. 

Objective aspects of our lives also play a pivotal role. A heavy ceramic jar, brown and white, is where my grandmother used to keep table salt. A palmful of salt to combine with tamarind, jolphai (Indian olive), in those innocent, untouched afternoons of my childhood.

A few months back, in the famous “Radio & Gramophone” shop in Connaught Place, my eyes hovered over a white cardboard box that had the picture of an instrument that looked familiar. And I was astonished to see that the dear old “record player” was back on the shelves. A strong wave of nostalgia swept over me, as I remembered the lazy evenings when I was introduced to Bhupen Hazarika and Jayanta Hazarika’s songs, flowing out of the black rounded discs with the circular red central label displaying the docile dog of “HMV”. Long before my ear drums learnt to savour the pleasure of a ‘jiya dharak dharak jayein’ or a ‘purani jeans aur guitar’ vibrating out from the ultra chic home theatre system, it was the succulent notes of a “chupke chupke raat din” or the vibrant “dekha ek khwab to yeh silsilein huwe” from our bulky “record player” that taught me the meaning of a song and the beauty of music decades back. 

A few rocks (ten to be exact) that I collected from the banks of a nameless river in Miao in Arunachal Pradesh more than a decade back…On a silver night, by the banks of the silver river, I had spent some moments of self retrospection, made a few decisions; the round rocks, molded to shape by the merciless cold water of the hilly river, adorn a significant corner in my living room till date, and each time I look at them, I am reminded of that river. The river, as described by some author whose name eludes me now, that we all carry within us. The decisions that we make, which in turn makes each of us expressions of our decisions, or in other words, messengers of our deeds. 

Yes, I disagree with the general consensus that objects are dispensable for the safekeeping of memories; some objects give a distinct face to some precious memories.

Faces, the innumerable portraits which remain etched in our minds and hearts. The lanky boy selling strong tea in plastic cups in the foggy winter evenings, the smiling owner of the shop that makes overcoats and trousers, the generous driver of the Blueline bus who unfailingly managed to keep a seat vacant for a very much pregnant yours truly, irrespective of the volume of crowd that swarmed the 4:50 p.m. bus in route no. 542, the lissome eunuch closing her eyes and blessing me with an earnestness rarely seen in the most devout of godmen flooding the society nowadays, and many more.

There are some places too which are everlasting. For instance, the meandering lanes that lead to my alma mater, the Guwahati Medical College; what is there in the tree lined cool route which makes it more majestic in my mind than the Rajpath in the national capital? 

The wet evening in a bustling city where dreams met reality. 

My first glimpse of the Connaught Place has remained unchanged in the canvas of my mind till now. 

At times, we may want to do a “control-z” on certain incidents of life, but that would not have made us the people that we are today. And thus, as we walk the journey, from one phase to another, we learn to swindle out moments from the iron grip of reality.