Category : Articles

Sub Category : Miscellaneous

Echoes remain, long after voices fall silent. Memories remain, long after the flush of spring and the leaves of autumn have given way to a winter of ennui and inertia. Memories remain, buried in the half-trance of an acute subconscious, the sole weapon that can make you laugh and cry, at dawn and dusk.


 Memories, come to me through the eyes of my mother, memories that claim the daily nothings and lend a touch of joy. I have seen in through her eyes, a world where childhood still existed, a world that still gave itself away to fancies and foolishness, a world where idealism brewed in cups of coffee, a world that stands in sharp contrast to mine. I see a different landscape altogether, I see spontaneous mirth, I perceive a an all-prevailing simplicity, I see a world that has no barriers, I see a girl who still believes there's good in this world. I envy her.

 Memories come to me through the eyes of an ageing grandma, whose stormy eyes hold witness to bloodshed, loss, apatheia.
She seems locked in a time-warp, where memories of Partition, that tore apart her family, seem more real to her. I see the pain bred amidst the waste of refugee camps, pain, numbed years of silence, locked in diaries, unfinished letters and secretly hoarded bits and pieces of former life. Yet, I see flashes of youthful vigor, an indomitable optimism, dreams taking root, ideals taking shape and a new identity painstakingly built. I see a young girl, who is ready to defy the world, a girl with a cheeky, disarming smile that accompanies her passionate protests, a girl who believes, that dreams to come true. I admire her wholeheartedly.

 Memories that I have accumulated are inadequate: a seventeen-year old life of astounding regularity hardly speaks for itself. Yet, there are some memories that I like to recall, relive and rejuvenate myself with. They bear testimony to the changes in me, they stand witness to my first defeat, they carry the silence of a shattering and healing soul and they add meaning to nothingness.

 It was a rainy eve, and I was returning home. Arrested by the relentless shower, I stood stuck in a small shed whose walls have off a terrible stench and raindrops leaked at regular intervals. Outside, the footpath was empty. Nearly empty, I decided as I saw two kids, probably street kids, my mind concluded. As I looked closer, I saw that they were actually playing football, amidst the slush, the mud, the dirt, they were playing football, that too with an old discarded coconut shell. I looked at them in wonder. These kids, they were laughing, playing, dancing, shouting and indulging in something I'd like to call: FREEDOM. Yes, standing in that smelly shed, I think I realised my definition of freedom. And even now, after those long hours of pointlessness labor, when I close my eyes and imagine freedom, I can only see two kids, playing football.


 Memories of my beloved city, in rain and in shine, memories of counting stars, memories of running barefoot across a wet field, memories of endless singing, rambling, talking, memories of innocent Christmas Carol's, red hats and cake, memories of 'quiet, insignificant days', memories of sudden storms...they complete me. Today, when I'm about to step out in the world, I feel vulnerable, alone, exposed, but something tells me, my memories, my beautiful memories, will form that invisible wall protecting me, keeping me sane, lending old colors to new lives.


 Memories remain, long after the echoes fall silent...