What We Keep

As memories fade, what are the things we hold on to?

  It's only natural to forget some details about a trip you took a couple of years ago — you try to console yourself. As someone who has taken great pride in his memory, you know that feeling of disappointment when you just can’t tell someone what they were wearing on a trip — a little party trick you had picked up over the years. You forget the little things you used to remember, like where you stayed or which touristy spot you went to.

  And then you get alarmed on a random Wednesday when you suddenly realize that you don’t remember jackshit about the trip you took just four months ago. You sit there in a random tea shop, looking like a fool, with your quizzical brows, wondering what the hell happened in New York or Puerto Rico or wherever the hell it is that you went. Did life really get that busy, or was it one Pina Colada too many that did the damage, you wonder.

  You think you may have just been too lost in things, that you were not really present — and you almost fall into the hippie propaganda of “slow living” or whatever it is they talk about nowadays. You brush aside the possibility as you look at the parippu vada in your hand, shake your head thinking “well that can't be it” and devour the magical snack with your tea.

  But as you sip, your thoughts keep swirling. You wonder what state your memory will be in when you actually cross the three- or four-decade milestone of living — whether you’d need a reminder to put on your glasses even though your myopic self can’t see five feet without them.

You go through the scrapbook of memories in your mind — something you cherish and value a lot — only to see those memories slowly eroding. You suspect disease, but brush aside the possibility when you ironically remember the exact first sentence your kindergarten teacher said to the class on your first day.

  But with time (and more parippu vadas), you realize you might have been more present than you thought — just not in the way you expected. You may not remember specifics anymore, but you do remember feelings — like that feeling of peace you got on a houseboat in the Ashtamudi Lake (probably what stayed as your benchmark of peace for ten years), that feeling of existential belonging with friends, that bittersweet feeling of homecoming you experienced on a drive as the road stretched to the horizon.

  And then you wonder — did you really forget the important stuff? Or is this just how memory works, with quiet but effective housekeeping, so that only the things that really mattered have the space to stay? And when that realization hits, you console yourself by thinking — how can you really forget anything, when each moment, each memory, and each person you met has quietly shaped you and when future persons, moments and memories will quietly continue shaping you till the day you die?

  But a couple of moments later, you realize that it may be okay to forget a lot of things — but your bill at the tea shop will never be one of those things.