Memories in Brine

‘The clock talked loud. I threw it away, it scared me what it talked”. ~Tillie Olsen, Tell Me a Riddle


I finished watching Marley and Me on TV a few minutes ago. Apart from the sudden scrabbling for paper tissues towards the end, I was reasonably stoic about this lovely tearjerker. To dog lovers like me, they really should give an advance warning sign (just like they do with PG and A ratings to general viewers) saying ‘Waterworks Just Ahead’.

It’s the last few minutes of the film. John Grogan, the chief protagonist and author sits with Marley, his tempestuous, loving and utterly mad Labrador, as he’s put to sleep, and talks to him about the life they had. Marley has travelled from barmy child-in-chief of the house to an older, wiser brother as Human Child 1, 2 & 3 are born. Time then passes in a happy haze, and the kids are now older. Marley with a loving life and his growing family is now ill, dying. Somewhere in that gentle, murmured conversation, something strikes a chord. ‘Remember when, when you came home for the first time? You were so naughty Marley. Your fear of thunderstorms, your eating up everything in the garage including the wall? There are a lot of memories in there, aren’t there, boy? Maybe you don’t remember all of them -things tend to all run into each other don’t they?’ Marley’s boot-black eyes look at John’s in a moment of complete connection and understanding. Yes, in a full, happy life, memories do tend to ‘run into one other’.

Seeing the whole movie telescope into that few minutes of a flashback between the dying dog and his human made me remember that after a while, things truly tend to run into each other. You try and remember school graduation, or the winning of an award, or the time of pure happiness holding hands, and gazing into a caldera in dreamy Santorini. But in some giant accordion press of time, incidents and anecdotes just tunnel into each other. You don’t remember timelines, exact dates and milestones. But when you do, you catch your breath; you can only remember how it made you feel.

At which point do you turn around and discover with predictably bittersweet sadness, that these are memories, and they clearly belong in your past. At which point do you notice, while you are counting the beads of day in the chain in your hand, that there are likely as many such memories behind you, as there ahead of you, and that most of the happiest ones are, in all likelihood, those from the past. At what time do you discover that infinite just got mutated and boxed, based on the pain in your knees as you ascend stairs n, or the fact that happy yawn and stretch as you awoke in the morning, is replaced by a desire to turn in for another 5 minutes, or get out of bed, feet dragging, duty bound only by a grumpy bladder or a time clock at work.

I always wondered when the ‘now’ would be a future memory and would do everything I could to hold that moment, into something that I would truly, intensely remember. The Good Old Days were in Present Tense. Sometimes I wonder if photographs are our frantic albeit futile need to preserve, freeze and stretch such moments in time. We rarely go back and revisit those photos, although it is clear that most all of them are preserved, however mixed up, in some curdled brine in our minds. We stir it up, and one or the other come up, reluctantly, and not always in great condition. There nevertheless.

There are times I long to catalogue the moments in my head. Pedestrian or otherwise, I wish I could write or record every single thing I’ve experienced. I envy bloggers, diarists, story writers who are able to experience and comment simultaneously. What a filofax to look back on, maybe embrace...

I wouldn’t mind even an old fashioned file with thoughts labelled under Love, Magic, Sad, Food, Life, and School etc. Like Miss Lemon’s much touted perfect filing system in the Poirot series, I too want to be able to docket, file, and cross reference all the wonderful things in my life. I want to be able to slide open that creaky filing cabinet , with a sense of purpose , knowing with certainty that I will find exactly what I want , and where I had kept it last .

In my head , I see that room with the warm lighting , and I see the cabinets on the left, But in the darker , smoky section in the far side of the room, I know my eyes are really quickly scanning to ensure that are enough filing cabinets to hold what is to come.

Sometimes I just don’t know.

(Copyright)

Twilight

Twilight. Twilight people
There are people who love it, those who come into their own at this time of day.
Not me.

I look outside my French Windows when the sun is still bright. Fading but still light.

I can see the trees, and between the branches and leaves, I see patches of light. That light is very precious to me. Spent, leaking, leaching into another time but its still day.

Daylight means that light is for real, its worked hard and ensured that the world has spun in a particular way .

Now that this view is trapped in a picture window on my left, I keep glancing at it.

 Keep looking at it , as if once I do , the fading, dampening of colour , much like sweat darkly staining a blue shirt , will arrest. And then slowly , mauvely the colour fades out .

I keep watching – the patches become smaller , and the electric light is now reflected on the glass of the windows, and superimposed on darkening , increasingly menacing sky. There is no thunder and lightning , but there might well be, to portend the end of a day, a death of a promise.

The fear of an inexorable cranking forward grows within me  - of something, time , space, whatever.

And an inner small voice is shouting under its breath, as loud as it can, to stop , stop, but no one can hear . It ought not to hear .

It’s the oldest march, and it goes on , and it goes on.

Walks over small ants, elephants, giants and choked screams like this.

Outside the light darkens, and now the incandescent light in the room has won. As the principal source of light, artificial is victorious over natural. Like today, the victory of  modern times.

Its never simple .
Like with all serious, inward moments , the grunge of the everyday intrudes. Outside, there are two blue and white bath towels drying on the balcony railings. An element of the ludicrous   creeping in  justwhen the soul is testing a silent scream, a touch of the circus in the middle of a eulogy.

Life always does that .
Just when its scratching inky stains on paper to communicate portentous tidings to the world, letters start to form, meaning takes shape , someone squishes tomato sauce on a white , white paper.
In the shape of a clown’s smile, twisted.

There are Twilight people. There are people who feel the stretching of nerves, the spreading of arms and adrenaline when the light darkens inexorably outside. I don’t know what it is that does not allow me to celebrate the end of a day.
Is it about hope that falls away , and hope that decays?

And then darkness fell.

Those words always scared me.
Do I therefore love the sunrise and the promise it brings? Do I love the spreading fingers of light?
Yes. Somewhat.

Bu that goods train drones in the distance , chug chug, groan groan, unceasing , inexorable.
It stops for no one, be it light or dark .

The Best Things in Life are Free...

There is the loud but muffled sound of fireworks from somewhere outside of my room. I ignore it for as long as I can, and continue to work on my laptop, but later walk over, mildly irritated but curious, to the French windows, and draw the curtains.

Through the clear glass of the windows , and the mosaic of the dark trees that partially cloud my vision, I see the sudden vision of man-made stars - red, green and yellow- explode in dizzying, orchestrated , rainbow slow motion across the dark sky. I am entranced, and I open the windows fully to drink it all in. They fall slowly, dim and fading into the yawning shadows below. The whistling sound of the Skyrockets and Catherine Wheels pop away in a distracted, distant manner, while the marvelous fireworks opera across the sky continues to unfold. As I lean on the balcony railing, pinching myself for being invited at short notice to this unceasing, gracious magic show across my horizon, I am joined by my maid. Equally entranced, we wait breathless, wondering when, if ever, this pageant will stop. And it slowly whittles away, this star parade , it goes lower and lower to the ground, and what felt like a display for the Gods , is now clearly in ant territory.

The best things in life are free, I tell her, translating clumsily into Tamil, straightening up from the balcony. Her eyes linger at the now dark, unsmiling sky outside. She nods quickly, I think she understands. She has dinner to make, so she scurries down towards the aloo-methi on the stove with, perhaps like me, memories of magic and residual sparklers of light fresh in her mind.

Its true isn’t it ? The Beatles might disagree when they sang:
"The best things in life are free
But you can keep 'em for the birds and bees
Now give me money, (that's what I want) that's what I want."
I think that the joy of health, love, friendship, happiness cannot be purchased by money.
Capturing the ‘moment’ that future memory is made up of, is rarely chargeable.
The snuggle , and warm toes that belong to the extra 2 minutes under the quilt just after the alarm has rung, is difficult to explain , or put value to.
The scent of cool, yet rain warmed earth on an October early morning ranks among my best things, and I don’t remember if I have paid up a ticket for that.
Then there is finding strange animal shapes billowing in the clouds on a still sunny day , and smiling at the rabbit with a crown, or the disintegrating snowman on a train that you see.
And have I counted the recognition of the soaring music of an old and beloved ballad?
Or the sudden illumination of a dark room with an electric light or candle?
Or the joyous heartbreak of a fragrant flower?
The snuffling sigh of your pup as she turns to cuddle deeper into the crook of your arm.
Going to bed with the comforting weight of an unread book tented on your chest, chasing away the worrying thoughts that are a frequent prelude to slumber? ?
The sudden redolence of a steaming cup of tea in the early morning?
Strolling through a roadside art festival, with creativity and colors spilling in exhilarating bursts around you?
What about the ripples on a transparent puddle of needle sharp rain?
The sudden sniff of the aroma of comfort food when you walk into your home – rich and fragrant, redolent with the promise of fulfillment?
And the changing patterns of sun-dappled green in the trees crowding outside your window? The desultory yet wise conversation about life and living with your dad?
The inexplicable but deep connection with yourself that comes as your bare toes connect with green grass?
Re-reading an old classic, and smiling with a satisfied sigh at the predictable happy end?
What about the explosion of vanilla aroma as the oven door opens with a baking brownie inside?
The moon looks down at me in silvery splendor – she belongs to no one.

A giggle with a friend, or the smile of understanding on a shared memory is priceless, and stored away in a happy pocket of the mind. The arm around the shoulder or the warmth of your loved one’s hug brings a sense of completeness – one of the best things that you again don’t have to pay for . Unless your coin is love and affection.

While we might mambo to Madonna’s ‘Material Girl’ , I admit I prefer waltzing to Frank Sinatras version:
The moon belongs to everyone,
The best things in life are free.
The stars belong to everyone,
They gleam there for you and me.
The flowers in spring, the robins that sing,
The moonbeams that shine, they're yours, they're mine.
And love can come to everyone,
The best things in life are free

(First published in Bangalore Mirror)