Second beer down. I was getting to know this friend of mine more closely.
Me: "So man, do you have a girlfriend?"
He: Silence. Tears flowing down his cheeks. Corners of his mouth twitching, hands quivering slightly. Slowly he shakes his head as if to say "I wish I still had her in my life". The downpour outside, with the wind laying its cold and flirtatious hands on it, too seemed to mourn the unknown. I have seen this before. Its a Déjà vu. I have sat in the same place as he crying my heart out to a close friend lamenting over a relation that was not meant to be. That was in another life, I remind myself.
I put my hand around his shoulder and gently took him out of the crowded filth that we were sitting in; his head hung low but eyes that were seeing deeper than the ground. Eyes that bore the roads deeper as if to dig out memories of forgotten promises, of the colourful days that stained his sleep now. I willed him silently to tell me his story. An hour and several cigarettes later, he opened up. His eyes were glazed and had a faint smile in them. He told me about the first day, the first hug, the first job, first gift, the first fight and the last phone-call. As the story progressed from one season to the next, so did his voice. From a faint memory-laden tone to the bitter tone of a musical instrument that is mutilated. I was not required to play the relationship counselor here. I was assigned the part of a mute listener. I was spared from the part where I had to be judgmental.
I asked myself. What is it that hurts us all so much? Is it the actual incident or is it more the memories? I believe its the latter. As blessed as we humans are with our memories, the impact of an incident, however bizzare it may have been, erodes over time. When we attempt to recollect the past, the result is a mixed palette of memories, the impact of incidents and the jibe of some past feelings in an inner corner and it all concocts into a slush by itself making it all the more bearable. We seek for plausible explanations for such incidents over a number of recounts and the more we try, the more it escapes - like water being held in our palm. Some say memory is a blessing, it keeps some going but for some, memory is as scary as death. Memory saves some but for a lot of them, its annihilating power leaves them crippled at the door of life.
The story ended with a sigh. A sigh of relief that resonated in one's ears long afterwards. I asked him, "so what now?". He replied, "I want to move on. Kill all memories and start life like a new-born baby" and smiled. I could see resolute and belief in the future on his face.
He lit another cigarette to amuse me with yet another get-away story from his college days.
Memories!
Me: "So man, do you have a girlfriend?"
He: Silence. Tears flowing down his cheeks. Corners of his mouth twitching, hands quivering slightly. Slowly he shakes his head as if to say "I wish I still had her in my life". The downpour outside, with the wind laying its cold and flirtatious hands on it, too seemed to mourn the unknown. I have seen this before. Its a Déjà vu. I have sat in the same place as he crying my heart out to a close friend lamenting over a relation that was not meant to be. That was in another life, I remind myself.
I put my hand around his shoulder and gently took him out of the crowded filth that we were sitting in; his head hung low but eyes that were seeing deeper than the ground. Eyes that bore the roads deeper as if to dig out memories of forgotten promises, of the colourful days that stained his sleep now. I willed him silently to tell me his story. An hour and several cigarettes later, he opened up. His eyes were glazed and had a faint smile in them. He told me about the first day, the first hug, the first job, first gift, the first fight and the last phone-call. As the story progressed from one season to the next, so did his voice. From a faint memory-laden tone to the bitter tone of a musical instrument that is mutilated. I was not required to play the relationship counselor here. I was assigned the part of a mute listener. I was spared from the part where I had to be judgmental.
I asked myself. What is it that hurts us all so much? Is it the actual incident or is it more the memories? I believe its the latter. As blessed as we humans are with our memories, the impact of an incident, however bizzare it may have been, erodes over time. When we attempt to recollect the past, the result is a mixed palette of memories, the impact of incidents and the jibe of some past feelings in an inner corner and it all concocts into a slush by itself making it all the more bearable. We seek for plausible explanations for such incidents over a number of recounts and the more we try, the more it escapes - like water being held in our palm. Some say memory is a blessing, it keeps some going but for some, memory is as scary as death. Memory saves some but for a lot of them, its annihilating power leaves them crippled at the door of life.
The story ended with a sigh. A sigh of relief that resonated in one's ears long afterwards. I asked him, "so what now?". He replied, "I want to move on. Kill all memories and start life like a new-born baby" and smiled. I could see resolute and belief in the future on his face.
He lit another cigarette to amuse me with yet another get-away story from his college days.
Memories!
