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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.