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.