Saturday, March 7, 2009

Timeless Memory

We connect specific individuals to special pictures in our mind frames. The very thought of a particular person is related to his image in our intellect. The face, the smell, the sensation of that particular touch, the voice of that someone remains etched in our minds.
And memory has no age; it does not grow older with years and the passage of time does not leave a wrinkle on its visage!
As years roll by, walking down those cherished by-lanes of reminiscences, I stumble upon those old images of amassed senses, those warm passionate touches, that glowing countenance, the smell of a half burnt cigarette and the caress of a cold black leather band on a humble white dial HMT watch against my cheeks.
A dark dingy room with old brown curtains and its little holes, through which the first rays of the sun filters in, encompasses my world of memories.
It is a very modest room and speaks reams about its owner. You could write it off as a disorganized and messy bachelor's pad, or if you saw it through my eyes, call it the little heaven of a creator and a poet.
Time has not changed the way I feel about the room, though there have been many significant alterations and amendments in the life of the owner, that now definitely reflect in the modification of its mood and d├ęcor! Despite the changes, I see the room as an unpretentious little penthouse of my very private moments and very personal experiences. I still feel that diffident air in the room that smelled of burnt cigarettes and moisture.
Even now, I picture the room in its old image, with half-opened Kafka and Richard Bach, lying on a dusty old mahogany desk, an yellowing letter from an old associate in the drawers, butts of Charminar plain lying in every corner of the tattered rug that was once a red carpet, Jethro Tull, Pink Floyd and Traffic booming from an old CD player on a smoky, dusky afternoon., and You!
Starry eyed you, with a thousand dreams in your doe-like almond eyes.
Fiery, passionate you, with that furious Capricorn rage, one that could destroy the world, your relationships and finish you!
Affectionate poetic you, telling me what I looked like when you brought me home from the hospital, three days after I was born.
Creative, talented you, singing "Am I a fighter or a lover?" in my ears.
Romantic doting you, drenched in rains with a rose bud in your hand.
Passionate adorable you, admiring my face in the light of a match stick one midsummer night!
Then I see us!
We sharing a sunset; we reading out pieces from Love Story together; we wishing upon a silver shooting star, we holding hands in a dark theatre watching a gripping Spielberg thriller, we dancing in the terrace on a cold moonlit night to Ian Anderson's magical flute; we hunting for old tattered pieces of wisdom in the pavements of College Street, we cooking up a new recipe out of a stale fish curry; we making love in the rain!
No. I don't see my bruises, don't even feel the pain and don't hear myself sobbing in those long lonely difficult nights when our worlds were falling apart.
Thanks to memory, it has a selective vision.
Memory does not age. Its images do not alter, amend or modify with time and relationship.
Is memory infinite with neither form nor definition? Unbound by time, emotions or space?
To all my memories, its images and metaphors, its senses and emotions,
Eternally yours...

PS: This was written in quiet solitude on a rain swept afternoon more than a decade back, when a speck of wisdom fell out of a leaf of grass and left me moist. Never thought I could make a public display of this misty emotion until someone I was speaking to the other day attested my reasoning and agreed...yes, memory has a selective vision and it is untouched by time! Do you agree?


  1. Simply wow!!! Selam is all I can say...

  2. Hello stranger:
    Memory is white, depends on the light which your mood is shining on it that moment. But to me memory stands like a bundle carefully preserved yellow manuscripts, every time I look back at them they fill me with an amused nostalgia: wow I too have a history! It keeps stacking on me till I feel nothing but humility for every moment of this simple little life.

  3. Yes .. memory is selective and more so the quintessential alchemist in your soul. This post validates your first... we always have a choice, even in what we choose to forget, and we choose to cherish all our lives. At the end of the day, those selective cherished memories are what see us thru Little Noddy.. doesn't matter if they were raindrops on a window pane, or strains of a guitar in an mp3...

  4. the best me ..

  5. Ananya,read your post.I am really really bowled over.And mind it,I am really thrifty when it comes to praise writers.
    You have a rare spark.I love some writers for their content,some for their simplicity,and others for their stye.In your case, I like the way your thoughts flow and as you build up your thoughts with a poetic non chalance. YOur strokes are wild,carefree and bold,which make them more exciting and keeps one glued,lest a particularly used brilliant expression is missed out !And the biggest triumph of a writer is to bring to life the image being described.You do it with aplomb.I was almost in that room,and I could almost touch the mahogany desk,or smell the burnt cigarettes !
    Cheers ! Keep writing !

  6. Hi Ananya [Maam]:
    I'm charmed with your thoughts and flair of great expressions! I've read all three of your Blog pieces and am overwhelmed beyond words in admiration.Keep on writing. Feel proud of you.
    Regular follower,
    Mukul Kaku.

  7. I do agree, Ananya di. A beautiful piece of art...Has brought a galore of mine too. What i liked best is the anonymity of the character/characters described. Many would say...the lover. But i interpret it as 'anybody u love'. And as salman Rusdie puts the stream of memories, nothing dies.

  8. Was going through your posts. AKB, you never fail to amaze me...neither as a person, nor as a writer. Really touched by your expressions.

  9. Soulful, vivid and flawless diction..