Memories

          'Memories are more precious to me than possessions'. If there is only one thing someone is allowed to leave with, I can understand how they could walk away with just a shoe-box full of memories.  I wonder at the person I would be without all of mine. Most of them are intangible glimpses of my perceptions - of people, places, time, experiences.  

            If I wanted to be specific, I would say 'memories are my skewed perceptions'. After all, it is not truly 'what is' that I see. I see, choose out of what I see and then I interpret, and store that interpretation. And whenever I retrieve them, they are susceptible to alterations. So yes, memories are not always true. But somehow, all that science doesn't diminish what memories truly mean to me. Imperfect as they are, it defines me as I am now. 

          Each memory holds within it the essence of our emotions of that moment. Whenever I think of 'harmony', it is one place and a certain journey that comes to mind... one long trek from Tutupani to Muraldhanda.  It was mid-April, most of the snow had melted off on the hills of Himachal. If you would look carefully, you would find some chunks of snow like mud-soaked memories of winter, hiding in those corners and crevices. We had started off early in the morning. There was a chill in the air; it was fresh, the world calm. We walked along  the curving mountain roads, with the huge drop on one side and the Rhododendrons splashing the world with color.

        

             I had on my most comfortable pair of sneakers, an old windcheater with the hood down, and was toting an even older backpack (God alone knows how many people had used it before me?!).  It was a long walk. I was starting to get a little tired, a little depressed and then it started drizzling. First, there were splashes of darker gray on the road, then it spread... A few moments, then it was a downpour. I could feel the water dripping onto my face, flowing down my nose, my clothes getting soaked. I pulled the hood up and kept walking. I was watching the road - the way it curves, how it slowly got drenched, and those rivulets flowing across the road.

             Suddenly, I looked up. Stopped. Held my breath.

             Lo behold! the world was beautiful. It was like everything had taken on this dazzling hue: the flowers were more red, the grass more green, the soil full of life and the water swishing, swirling, tumbling down the drop.  I was in a moment of absolute perfection - life in all its beauty. 

            Years have passed since. Time seems have washed away a lot of the details, leaving only the very essence of that moment - the being in harmony with the universe. And so it is, that I  too would walk away with just a shoe box full of memories - of old photographs, that broken watch, the pressed carnation inside that well worn book...

“For in the end, it is all about memory, its sources and its magnitude, and, of course, its consequences.”