Set It Free

Somehow there are a faces you don’t want to see… for instance, there is this yesteryear actresses’ daughter who tries to strut out of her mother’s legacy in an attempt to establish her own presence; yet, the sad thing is that she neither has the essence nor the stuff that her mother had; no, not one bit and every time I see her on the screen, I flick the screen as if in auto-mode and if she appears on some magazine cover, not by her merit but through her PR efforts, I flip the magazine into the nearest garbage bag… where I think she rightfully belongs. 

Another instance that I recall, while talking about puking at the memory of a person was someone I admired quite intimately - who at one point of time, a long, long time ago, made me forget my name… once. Cursed with chemosensory memory, I remember people and recollect events through olfactory stimulation and I distinctly remember this person’s smell… a concoction of talc mixed with cheap, teenager’s deodorant. After years, while straying in the aisles of a supermarket, the same mixture of talc and deo filled the air – must be someone who tried to sample the concoction, leaving behind the trail… by now, what once enchanted me, disgusted me. Looking for the nearest exit, in a frantic attempt I rushed out and threw up. 

Memories can be delicate and dangerous – a double-edged sword – can slay the reaper as well as cut the keeper. How I wish we had a pen drive-type memory box instead of the God-given hippocampus… to turn on and off memories that we wish to keep, restore or destroy completely at our will.

The sad part of memory is that unlike energy, memories, can be created as well as destroyed… never replaced. Yet, the memories attempted to be replaced, filters through the phenomenon of truth; where an enforced lie cannot replace or gaslight memory. Memory, is personal, is internal and uninfluenced as this storehouse sits comfortably relying to be influenced by amygdala - the powerhouse of emotions; emotions, that spurs out of experiences - both painful and pleasurable that are personal. This wiring of God, is irreplacable. A dark tunnel that allows only the keeper to enter, explore and exit. 

The very common mistake that people do, is when in a superficial mode to overcome a strong overpowering emotion, thrust an external pressure to convince a person that the memory they hold is incorrect and subject a person to their perspective of what the other’s memory has to be. But why would anyone try to replace another person’s memory? Well, it could be a passively jealous sister-in-law, a conniving lawyer, a greedy mother, a purposeless brother, a corrupt family that may see the pinnacle of selfishness as the crux of success or even an aimless therapist who for reason’s (only) their own, recreate a world that suits their convenience for their victim. But then, truth cannot be destroyed. Though reciprocatively one may agree superficiously for the influencer’s sake, truth, when suffered, erupts when one needs peace the most. At the end of the day, our mind effortlessly remembers what is true and was experienced rather than an enforced effort to replace it with a lie to grab things beyond our reach. Truth, will set you free.

From The Closet

One day due to some strange reason I started walking through the streets where I grew.

Reminiscence and childhood memories with every step, the playground where we friends used to bash up each other in the name of some wild game and patched up for the next game, the games were always on perhaps they never stop, the old flour mill and the masala shop, the teachers who lived nearby, the tuition centres, my friend’s homes, girls who I thought were beautiful, who lived nearby, the slanting post where I drove the new bicycle and crashed on the other side of the wall, the old tiled house with hanging pots and the Morris Minor, Herald and Lambretta, the tank at the backyard where I soaked myself in summer, which made me think that I was an ace swimmer, which ended up in me getting bashed for jumping into the sea thinking that swimming in the ocean was as easy as swimming in the tank, the famous landmark-a telephone exchange, the skating rink, the guitar classes, the wedding house where I learnt the existence of class system, the empty plot into which we used to shoot rockets with fire on their tail, the mango and guava trees, my secret hiding place in the old depleted building, the old well into which we used to throw the biggest stones to hear them splash, the Sunday classes... even if anything had changed, my eyes saw only the mirage of their presence as it was when I was a kid.

A deliberate stubbornness to ensure that nothing should change… an attempt to wish that the small essence of innocent memories through those eyes of the child must not be lost.

Wish I could go back time and relive a few moments I cherish and change a few I regret as well. Think I do not have the luxury to say as many do that I do not wish to turn back and change anything in my life if given a chance to do so. At times God is like an unforgiving opponent in the game of chess who would not let us change a move we regret after making it.

Time, money and mobility changes our life style and at times family, fate and duty creates a distance between us and people we wish to be with. However, at the end of the day, money changes everything I suppose. It can make people hate and love in seconds, create an illusion and make a dream come true right in front of our eyes, makes the ugly beautiful and vice versa, breaks barriers for self and sets up barriers for others, creates suspicion, doubts and at the same time liberates people. It is a genie. I think I would give in to letting money stay with me if it knows how to keep silent.

Bottomline: Songs of innocence are cherished only after lamenting through songs of experience.