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 bus I might've taken, hurried memories of the carts selling fritters by the crowded Gariahat crossing. Turbulent thoughts fill my head, agitating me in trying to recall those details I can no longer recall on command. Waves. 

And almost always, these waves wash me over, drowning me into a hazed day that somehow held on to my trembling subconscious all these years. Not all of the day materialize, and yet I try to haphazardly construct them to completion, cramming the corners and uneven spaces with bits and scraps borrowed from other memories. So the vendors on a busy Gariahat crossing end up having hair unnaturally longer than I remember, the books on the shelves of the quaint little stationery store have their titles jumbled, the jars labelled sharpeners get stuffed with colourful playing marbles or fragrant erasers. 

Memories come to me in waves. Mixed with sand and dirt, muddy foam, and shards of broken seashells. They break at my feet, and I feel the sand being dragged away as I am left wondering, why didn't I choose the lane instead?