Waves
Down the memory lane, I've often heard people say. Not just people, I've read them in old social media posts, withered diaries, and in hastily placed bookmarks one forgets to remember. Surprising, aren't they? Because hidden amidst old memories are rarely present a linear pattern, a lane that you navigate at your leisure. Instead, memories come to me in waves. It starts with something small, like a feather or an old worn-down eraser that gradually shrunk having to erase half-construed fictions, or half-recalled reality. Memories come to me in waves. A graphite pencil follows the eraser, or an ink pen that I've once been fascinated with. I no longer remember what about the pen had grabbed my attention, was it the untroubled flow of ink or the flashy design that had caught my eye? I no longer remember. Yet, memories come to me me in waves. A small glimpse of the warm afternoon I had spent roaming those empty South Kolkata streets after college, a flashing reminder of the ...