Memories

They are rather magical, lively things. They often, for me, come without warning. Like when I'm doing a chore, or listening to music, or reading a book; and sometimes, at some instant when I've tasted a particular food, or smelled a particular odor, they suddenly become alive, each springing from a hidden recess in my mind.

Some of them come in manageable bits, which I can either encourage or suppress, depending on whether they are pleasant or otherwise. And some come in overwhelming torrents, leaving me with no other choice but to just hold on tight, and allow them to take me wherever they may fancy. I shed a tear or two at times, or else enter a trance-like state, oblivious to everything around me.

As I am trying to rid myself of excessive sentimental foolishness, including outdated, blind beliefs, and some useless parts of my conscience even, I consider memories as incongruous inconveniences, like specks of dust in my eyes, or a useless body appendage. They do nothing but add to the burdens of everyday living.

I started life on a happy note, in a family which is among the kindliest in the world. Hence, there isn't any direction left to go to, except toward atrophy; you know, like from bad to worse, plenty to poverty, healthy to ill, happy to sad, life to death. It is unstoppable. And memories merely serve to make more pronounced the rancor.

If I had no memories to drag along with me wherever I may go, then each day will be new. I can start fresh every morning, brimming with hope and anticipation, my vision unclouded by regret, or remorse, or fear. I can realize my full potential, without being weighed down by emotion or conscience. I may then become despicable to some people, a self-centered, ungrateful slob. But in reality, I will have become the perfect organism for life's largely unforgiving conditions. If there were no memories, life will become very tolerable, and will proceed mechanically, efficiently, profitably, unhampered by notions of right and wrong.

But memories are like addictive drugs. We crave them. We are enamored by them. They seem central and essential to our existence; as when we glamorize and exaggerate our lives through tales of our exploits, our conquests, and other largely misguided adventures and activities; as when we would rather waste our time reminiscing unrightable events, and other scenes steeped in inane nostalgia. This option is attractive enough, though, as it offers some sort of respite from the sustained banality of life.

When work does not occupy me, I lose the battle against memories. They dart from here and there, from different points of time in my life. The rational in me abhors the exercise; the emotional finds it delightful.

An Old Woman

On my way home tonight, I was stagnant, with dying dreams in my head. The cold air was heavy with filth and fumes, and I passed by houses hollowed and abandoned by memories both happy and bitter, its people moved on to fabled lands, while I remained, and hoped, and dreamt, and planned, and lost; consigned to the torture of reminiscences, forever in the limbo between failure and hope.

Then she was there: On a sidewalk, exerting her dominion over tattered treasures, oblivious to concepts of dignity, focused on surviving, making my whimpers apparent and embarrassing.

When I left, she was still there, and the forlorn, hopeless sight lifted my spirits up a bit. Though tinged with cruelty, the miserable among us find perverse comfort in the sight and smell of the hopeless.

Beginnings

We're done with the rituals of welcoming yet another year. I personally feel that a new year starts off as somewhat sluggish, probably from the daze and hecticness of the holidays that immediately precede it. Then, it slowly reclaims its lost pace, the swiftness by which the alternation of night and day becomes mechanical and unforgiving, never stopping for love or happiness or death or grief.

Time's unstoppability exacts a toll on my dreams. I have finite time and limitless dreams. I know I should move faster and do more, but while time moves forward in a straight line, dreams, or mine at least, flit and glide and fly to each and every direction they please. Chasing them sometimes throws me off-paths, and occasionally I get lost, losing precious time in the process.

I begin another year because time commands me to. I breathe under its dictates. It allows me bits of pleasure, though: Reminiscences of moments of love, moments of inexplicable insight and joy, of faith and hope. It'll keep me in suspense each day, bringing both strange and wonderful things to my doorstep. It will, at least, allow me beginnings.

Closure

This Christmas season should be missing out on the joys of holidays past, for my dear wife and their family, and for myself as well. My mother-in-law has been diagnosed with colon cancer in its advanced stage.

Events unraveled rather fast. I recall minor complaints of physical inconvenience every now and then; but nothing that would have made us even remotely think that a serious threat to her life was underway. We all went about the happy, deprived, problematic, and humid business of living our intertwined lives. We fought, argued, criticized, hoped, and dreamed; we loved each other nonetheless.

Then, as suddenly as lightning can strike on a clear, sunny day, the hibernating, frightful disease woke up from within her. It commandeered everything she had available: Her strength, her appetite, her lifespan, and her unfinished business. She now lives on shorter borrowed time and, although we don't discuss it, our common feeling is that this holiday season is the last she'll spend with us.

I share in the pain of everyone who loves this marvelous, simple woman: She who always hopes for the best, but contentedly settles for least and mediocre things. It takes little to make her happy.

I miss the liveliness in her eyes now. She has the look of resignation on her face. In all likelihood, she feels pain, but she does not speak to us about it.

My wife took after her. She perennially endures the indignities of a life lacking in material comforts, the outcome of my restlessness and imprudence. And if one day she will fall ill like her mother, I surmise that she would also be as resigned and uncomplaining.

It's all in God's hands now, as everything really is. Science can only offer to cure physical wounds, soothe some of the pain; love, kindness, and compassion prop up the spirit; but all life rest in The Great Arbiter.

Dream

This morning I woke up from a strange dream: I was cleaning a house in preparation for moving in. Then I noticed a figure looking out a window of the house facing my house. I was dreaming, and so I abandoned my task, proceeded towards that house in front, and entered it.

It was bare, devoid of furniture, the walls blank and faded yellow, save for a waist-high, dark-brown wooden cabinet with drawers. I opened the topmost drawer; it contained old photographs, some tattered, some almost crumbling, and all of them faded. They were of kin and friends I knew, and who all have passed away.

Suddenly, the people in the photographs were there, filling the house with chat and commotion. Some smiled at me particularly; one was noticeably insouciant, and while also smiling, she just went past by me. I kidded her about that. But dreams are so free-wheeling, no?

I then woke up (or was awakened by something), and had the urge to write the following poem -

Life is here, Life is
Now, a part of it is
Yesterday; but certainly it is not
Tomorrow;

Death, its kin,
has countless tricks
up its sleeves;
we outpace it each day,

Or so we think:
We eat, drink
and are merry;
we traverse many roads,

Some to great finds,
some to naught;
some to the loveliest of places,
some to the saddest of those;

We walk, we run, we fly,
straight towards coveted,
obscured goals; and oh, so fast!
Around a corner, Death waits, and smiles.

Talking God

These days I find myself questioning my faith: I may have been had; that it has always been merely a superb piece of literature; that all good things are wonderful coincidences, dissociated from earthly plans or divine intervention. Or it could be that faith is a ruse for very profitable business ventures, and that this life is all there is, and there is nothing more beyond it.

I keep score of life's inequities, and I always end up feeling that I have more than my just share. My arguments are strong. The unanswered questions are many. I cannot be faulted for being limited only to what I can see; it is man's nature to be puny and proud. I keep up appearances, and maintain the trappings and fixtures and rituals of faith, not so much out of love, as for the primeval fear of the unknown, and also superstition.

I could use a talking god right now, like I could use love and hope and courage in my time of distress. I am discontented with merely the adornments of faith and veneration. I need miracles!

Lifeline

One day my son asked me whether it's true that each person is a lifeline to another. An insight to marvel at.

How very true. No matter our station in life, somebody looks up to us as a source of happiness or inspiration. We may look at ourselves in an unkindly way, but to some hapless soul, we may be the whole world. We may think of ourselves as worthless, but sometime, somewhere, someone may be thinking that we are an indispensable cog in the wheel of life, an essential element in the universe.

Each one of us is a lifeline to another, and so we are bound to move on, to persevere, to stand up when we fall; if not for ourselves, then for the dreams and hopes entrusted to us. A tall order which leaves no other option other than preserving the integrity of the lifeline.