Memories

What would life be without memories? They give depth to our existence. We learn from them, remember them, laugh with them, cry with them. They’re the substance of our mind.

Whenever I think about my childhood, a rush of images, sounds & smells fill my head.

There are a lot of firsts.

My first day in school. Smiling teachers, a lot of blue. I remember being a savvy, happy child, with answers to everything. I left a lasting impression.

My first friends. Laughter, birthday cakes and crayons. I remember tying shoelaces for everyone because I was the first one to learn how. I remember borrowing crayons and never returning them. Going to birthday parties just for the return gift. Wanting a GI Joe, because my brother had one. Watching my hair catch on fire on my birthday.

My first fight. Not understanding anything. Feeling hurt. Crying. Maybe punching someone- that memory is a little vague. Definitely pulling someone’s hair.

My first pet. A bird. A little blue budgie who would cock her head just so. Feroza, the obstinate little thing, who taught me so much about love. I remember walking in the park with her on my shoulder, biting my ear when I walked too fast. Snuggling into my sweater in the cold, & then feeling her climb up again. And when she died, hunted by a cat, I felt pain & loss, for the first time.

My first phone. Having no one to call because I was the only one with one. Showing off a little. And dropping it & losing it & breaking it.

A lot of other memories too.

Holidays. Beaches, water parks, temples, hotels, resorts, safaris, photographs, luggage, shopping & so much more.

Family. Fights. Domain issues with my brother. Shopping with my mother. My father dropping me to school. Watching my brother being lectured about his baggy pants, credit card bills & multiple girlfriends.

My grandmothers home In Agra. The domestic disputes. The aroma floating in from the kitchen- of dal & rice, the staple meal of the household since the 1800s.

The dogs howling at night and then being chased in the morning back into their dens. My grandma’s wry sense of humor. My grandfather, set in his ways, his clothes- a white kurta- laid out every morning. Being given Rs. 10 so I could buy chips from the shop across the street.

Hospitals, because all my relatives are medical professionals, I’ve seen my share of them.

Weddings. Loud, crowded, hot weddings. Dancing in the baraat. Dressing up in Indian attire, loaded with jewelry, feeling like a princess.

Looking back, I remember fondly all the moments gone by. Even now, when I stare at photographs of my past, I remember the laughter & the tears & the disappointments . And most of all, I remember what I am, & and how I became that way.

Autobiography

Writing about yourself is never easy. Opening a door & letting some one else privy to your secrets, your darkest desires, your hidden fears. Revealing your hidden face, letting a stranger peer through the outer façade you have built around yourself. Opening up.

Every other day a celebrity comes up with a memoir or an autobiography often with a boasting title that paints them as heroes & tragedy queens. Maybe such openness comes with being in the public eye so much. After being on public display for years, taking the final step to complete transparency is not so hard.

And how does one know what to write. What could be so interesting in my relatively “un-happening” life that another would be so interested to read about?

Ann perhaps the most philosophical reservation of all—do I know myself well enough to describe my inner world to another person, one who will perhaps judge me & form an opinion of my mistakes and my choices.

It’s not easy.

Telephone.

Waiting.

Staring at the damn telephone and waiting.

It won't ring. It never does.

Butterfly Fly Away

She stopped in the doorway, hesitating. She contemplated entering, her hand resting on the doorknob of the slightly-ajar door. Finally, taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door and entered.

He stood in front of the fireplace, his back to her.

A flash of memory. He would always stand like that, gazing into the dancing flames, thinking seriously. She'd been watching him since she was a little girl. It was his favourite place.

A smile played on her lips as more memories filled her head.

Being thrown in the air and caught again. Being engulfed in the musky smell of hard work, the feel of rough cotton shirt. Feeling protected. Safe.

She smiled more widely now & walked towards him, no fear in her stride now.

This was the man she'd trusted with her every secret since she was 5 years old.

This was her father.

"Dad", she called tentatively. He turned and gazed at her.

"I--", she began.

"Shh..." He shushed her. "You don't need to say anything. You have made your decision. And that's that."

"But I..", she tried again.

"No. Don't try to apologize."

"If anyone should apologize, it's me. You look like you're scared silly, and it's probably because of me. Don't be scared child, you're not making a mistake", he said gently.

"You see, no father wants his little girl to grow up. We want her to be forever the little child in pigtails & ribbon in her hair, who would run up to me with her drawings. The little girl who would need protection from the smallest thunderstorm. The little girl whose world revolved around me."

"But it doesn't work that way. We all grow up someday. And you have. Actually, you've been that way for a while now. I just refused to see it", he said with a little laugh.

Then he sighed. "I guess it was me who hadn't grown up yet. But I need too. To grow up and be strong. Enough to let go."

"But, Dad.." she said.

"No", he interrupted her. "You listen to me now. I want you to go. Take the scholarship. Go. Live your life."

"Just promise me one thing. Don't forget your old man now, alright? Write to me. Call me everyday. I want to know everything. Every little thing."

"Dad", she protested.

"No, caterpillar. You need to do this. A little distance is good for both of us. Don't worry, child. I love you, and I will always love you. But we both have some growing up to do, me more than you. And we have do it ourselves. I can't help you, now."

He looked away, his eyes glistening.

She ran into his arms, feeling her own tears brim over and run down her face. She buried her face into the familiar scent & the familiar feel and she cried.

"Shhh...", he said, patting her head.

"My dear butterfly, fly way now. Spread your wings and fly."

The delete button

When I'm writing, I find my hand often poised over the delete button. I write, read it, re-read, delete it and then find myself at a loss of words.

Because, nothing I write is good enough. It can be better. I can do better.

And what annoys me the most? When I write the perfect line. It's beautiful, it's smart, it's witty, it's lyrical. It's freaking perfect. And I can't find either head or tail.

Because nothing is ever good enough to come before or after that line... this most exquisite line has to be erased and never be used.

All writers go through this misery. Perhaps because we set such high standards for ourselves that nothing can ever go through the regimented perfection that we desire from our work.

Everything is non-satisfactory. Nothing is ever good enough.

It's good, but not good enough.

It's good, but it could be fantastic, ravishing, wholesome, extravagant.

There's always room for improvement.

The delete button is the realisation of this insecurity. Because the moment it sets it, pressing the delete button becomes second nature.

Sometimes I imagine the delete button to be smirking, like the callous villian whose long, thin fingers call the hero to his doom.

I hate the delete button.

The Hunt

The beast, quiet as a mouse
Stalks the prey in the night.
When all is dark, he ventures out
To realise his karma.
The rhythm of his paws
Only to be imagined
As he pads through softly .
The moon peeps from behind the clouds
A glint of those razor sharp claws
All is over.
A spectrum of nature.
Till the roar announces his prize
And the night is still again.