Have you
ever seen a matchstick burn?
As you
strike it, the binder revolts whispering “Is it that time already?”- A spark. The
potassium chlorate tides over the ebbing gelatin resistance – A hiss. And then
a flash – combustion. That belligerent diminutive flame raises its hood scorching
everything in its path to naught.
It all turns
to ash.
That is how
matchsticks burn.
That is how
everything burns.
The vessel
is a mesh of wood placed on rails - a journey. The body is raised into the oven
– a womb. The path is raised and you catch a glimpse of it all; The spark, The
hiss, The combustion and that belligerent flame. In the end, it all turns to
ash. My last memory.
My first
memory. I am may be 10, wearing may be a black suit I borrowed from him. Early
morning on a Saturday, my brother and I mock drive the white erstwhile ‘premier
padmini’ to may be the Aavin milk booth. Memory reminds me of the suit, the tie
that ends at my ankles, the brothers’ never ending conversations and the wait
in the car rotating the steering wheel with all our might. I will all of that
true. Irrespective of precision of that memory, the pseudo-mathematical brain convinces
the heart - the first memory.
Twenty years
later the same heart convinces the brain of ‘better places’ and ‘lesser pain’.
It chooses to look at that characteristic smirk on his lips and the draining shadow
off his once parched face. It listens to tales of his affliction and heeds ‘how
much worse it could have been’. It smells the incense of 24 departed spirits as
if waiting at baggage claim for that conveyor belt. It feels the cold forehead
and feet and questions purpose. It circles around his prostrate form and is
conscious of a second You chronicling everything outside your Self. It rummages
through ash and bones for that one impermeable signature of his existence. It
dawns on you. You walk away and don’t look back. "God Speed!"
‘God Speed’ was
the words I learnt. Memory reminds me again of a time in the morning. I am
raised to a chair to bring myself at eye level. I am tickled. I scream and laugh. “God
Speed”, he would say and tickle me again.
A short recurring memory swings the gates open. The bike ride when we all fall down. The thrill of going to the pond for a swim. The cricket played at the Salt Lake house with 10 people indoors. The birthday dinner at Zaranj. The embarrassingly questionable picture on the ID card of the summer swimming classes I admittedly am proud of. The preparation for the numerous train journeys back from Calcutta with 'luchi' and 'mangsho'. The order of the last 12 stations from Kharagpur to Howrah. The evening snack that ranged from Campari chicken to local rolls.
It is evening now and
the trials of the day make the eyes feel heavy. The remains are doused in the Ganga. The water is cold. Emptiness speaks about may be more responded messages or answered calls. Rationale is a guilty weapon. You smile when you hear your brother fed
him. You smile when your brother says he gave him his last drink of water. You
smile, when you know he did, when your brother sang to him the day before. You smile at the memory that will be this day.
Memories
have a deleterious mind of their own. It retains raised voices, stern admonishing,
a slap, fear and more raised voices. It reminisces of years when time was
without any of these memories. When presents were a bribe for love and you
secretly admonished yourself for receiving what the bilateral brain perceived a
right. It remembers trips to hospitals and medical reports that transformed him to a shadow of his past you refused to register. I will all of that false. Irrespective of precision of that memory, the
pseudo-mathematical brain convinces the heart. It will be morning.
A morning
next, his 2 year old grandson hopped in, screaming at everything
familiar. He stopped at the picture. He turned to us and asked ‘Granda?’. He turned
back and said ‘Granda!’ He hopped around again screaming at everything
familiar. His first memory? Every generation after us will know only that
picture. His Last memory?
My Last memory. He wrote to
me several times this last year. I never wrote anything for him, nothing these
30 years. Not one song. Not one play. Not one movie. I write back.
I forgive you
and I ask for your forgiveness.
He would
have wanted to know. I send him a friend request on facebook and I wait.
