What is with memories? I am besotted, almost in a sleepy state, relish in reliving the most oldest of all, the childhood days. The poetry that I read at school, the teacher who sneezed with impropriety; the play ground behind the school where I played cricket, at night, the street lamps under which I played hide and seek; the neighbours that I grew up with, the rich old man in his white flannel suit who came out every night to smoke a pipe punctually; the black and white television that I sat before, the detective sitcoms I watched; the roof that dripped wet all the walls when it rained; the auto rickshaw driver who had hair growing out his ears; the salon that I went to, accompanied with my father, and the man would sit me on a wooden plank over the arms of the chair, for I was still a boy and the mirrors weren’t particularly designed for boys of my age; the shop that I went to on the first week of every month, with my mom, my mom would but me a parleG for accompanying her; the doctor I hated for his needles, my dad would buy me an apple, one for every injection; the movies that the whole neighbourhood waited for, one whole week, and we would all sit together; the man who always yelled at his wife, and the stories about him; the vegetable market that I accompanied my dad with, he would buy me bananas for that; the friend at school who always bought needle syringes (his father was a doctor) and scared the lot; the friend who scratched his head for thoughts, one that sang, one that whined, one that flirted with girls, one that went around with girls, one who was taller than the rest; and the class rooms changed once in an year, the new textbooks so inviting that we would lie over them with noses between the pages and smell them, and then it happened, we all bought pens that year (used pencils before); sometime between the fifth and sixth class, we bought long note books (never wrote in long one before), then we had debates on the best shop, there was a guy opposite to the school, he always sold the best note books at comparably best prizes.
Then, the time for buying ‘wren and martin’, such a cataclysmic moment, first time ever, a book that was not available in the school depot (we had to buy it outside), each of us had different versions, only the lucky ones got hold of the old versions (the old ones were cheaper); and the atlas that we bought, we debated over the best shop for one whole year (there were always some of us who deliberately held back for everyone else to buy, so they could make their choice later); the English teacher that everyone disliked, the mathematics teacher that smoked, the science teacher that had a grin on his face all the time (he had lips pursed to one end), the hindi teacher who had us write so much that we had to buy new refills for our Reynolds (some had moved to jetter by then); the social teacher that was notorious, the principal that ever one liked, and his wife that every one remembered for her calling everyone a chatterbox; the crazy old man from beside the school (he hurled bricks at us); the nice families (or hostile) who complained, for we climbed on their compound walls; the roof sheds under which we had our classes for a good year (we never complained), the beautiful diva (the greek goddess) who taught us English; the TT room that was always crowded (some skipped their lunches so they could play TT); the sacrosanct room (principal’s) that no one ever went into, and debated over any one that went into regardless of why they had to go in there; the girl’s building beside ours, the computer lab (we played chess, one move by one student at a time, and the opponent was the machine); the biology lab that we went into (quite a rarity in itself), some of us brought frogs from home concealed in boxes (only to discover later that they were tadpoles and not frogs); the red velvet insects that every one played with in winters, some of us brought them from home, concealed in match boxes; the WWF cards that we were collecting, it was one of those times, every one of us were into it; the hall upstairs that we all referred to as the tenth standard (for it was only for the tenth standard students), and finally we were promoted there, the one place that we all coveted for, but in the end, it was the end. We never realised that the one year (the tenth standard) that we all coveted for spelled doom for everything we put together throughout the school time. We were separated, it was the end.
Someone brought a new bicycle, everybody had to look and examine the strengths and weaknesses of it by the dusk; someone’s birthday, someone had to accompany him to all the classes and stand by his side while the birthday boy distributed chocolates (I never understood why someone had to accompany, anyways, this someone always ended up always pocketing more chocolates than any one of us); exams, we prepared for them secretively (no one had to know what one, or to what extent one had finished reading); a teacher’s absenteeism was such a boon, we went into the ground for an extra dose of playing (only to be confronted by our big hairy PT teacher and the class leader escorted us back to our dens); someone went on a trip somewhere and everyone of us knew about it (such great networking skills we had); the small wooden benches that we sat on, the wooden desks on which we drew graffiti, we chalked our names, chalked figures of demons beside our names, made a big circle around them with someone else’s compass (for above all one must protect one’s own compass from a blunt end), we played with the compass sharp ends as darts (sometimes they merely missed the circles we drew on benches, but other times, they missed the desk altogether and would hit someone in the next row); the movies that we all discussed about (not many of us watched movies at that time, very rarely our parents would take us to the movies, such as on a diwali or dussera).
The milk man that frantically emptied his mugs full into our vessels every morning (I was assigned that job at home, and took great pleasure in standing before the door and waiting for the milk man to put the weight off his shoulders, just so I could stretch my arms with the vessel in my hands); the small puppies that littered in our compounds, everyone complained about them, but never really did anything but scoop the litter with dustbins that mimicked five fingers and throw it away (in those days, we did not have a goy knocking on our doors, emptying the contents of the dustbin into his truck, we did it all by ourselves, sometimes I went to throw it away, the whole neighbourhood created heaps of them in the neighbourhood); the festivals that we celebrated, I still remember the first time my mom brought me a steel gun with rolls of red paper that had blots of black combustible material on them; the ganesh festivals for which we went about to collect sums of money, and put up a small one ourselves beside the huge one; the TV Programmes that we all watched, everybody discussed about them for a good couple of days even after the festival was over; the fire crackers, the music, the prayers, the temple beside our home, the loud speaker creaking and screeching for the whole time, something devotional, something delightful; the snacks that we all shared in the neighbourhood, the new sweet making that my mom learnt for every new festival (she surprise me all the time, I was my mom’s favourite); I always stored the snack in my pockets and would pull one out every now and then.
All these memories, it is as if the ‘I’ that I am today, is only a part of me, to complete me, I have to seek out the ‘I’ that each of my neighbours, each of my friends, teachers, the auto driver, the shop keeper beside my home, the saloon guy, people I made an acquaintance with, the people that remember me. It is only through the collection of all these memories that people have of me would complete the ‘I’, for the ‘I’ that I presently am ridiculously insufficient to explain my idiosyncrasies. I don’t know much about me, in fact I know very little about me.
I cannot fully explain myself, I need all those people, and each one would contribute to the being that I am through their memories of me.
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