The lens that we put on to look
at the past is invariably rose-colored.
This is especially true when we narrate a story or share a memory. By cutting out generic details and
embellishing the story, a dash of spice here, a hint of exaggeration there, any
scene from the past seems to be the product of a taut screenplay and well-timed
dialogue – even the aesthetics seem to be right in place. When reminiscing about a walk on the beach
with a loved one, was the sky truly as beautifully azure and serene
as we make it out to be? Or were the
sands too hot and dirty to walk past to get to the rather crowded part of the
shore? Even when we recount messy details,
there is a tendency to vivify details with more nobility and positivity
than what truly ran in our minds then – was the “sorry” after a nasty (and
needless to say, needless) argument with a friend outside a movie theater more
perfunctory and obligatory than a deep realization of a mistake that we claim that it was? The truth is, the ‘truth’
really doesn’t matter beyond a point. The scene that
plays in our mind’s eye is the scene,
well edited and all. The story that rings in our ears is the
story, even if coated with the saccharine sweet treats of nostalgia.
In less than two years, I have
lost two of my very close family members – my maternal grandma and my aunt. As an only child born and raised in India, I used
to be frequently asked by curious extended family members and acquaintances
whether I felt bad that I did not have any siblings. At that time, I would laugh it off. My circle of loved ones was small but tightly
knit. As a result, I never yearned for a
sibling. Since everyone that cared for
me (and everyone I cared for) seemed to be within driving distance of where I lived,
there was never a question of yearning for anyone. I don’t think I ever said, “I miss you” to anyone simply because I never had to miss anyone. In essence, Chennai was part cauldron, part
cocoon.
For the past 20 years, I have
lived in the US. While I have enjoyed
many personal joys and professional successes, I do find that when I am by
myself, doing yoga, running on the treadmill or even driving to work, I have
the tendency to dwell on memories from the times when more members of my family
were alive. Without getting into the
kind of details that I gleefully mocked earlier, I can unhesitatingly say one simple
thing – the memories feel nice. I feel less bereft of the departed when
I recollect an incidental detail that makes me smile. For a fleeting moment, that detail brings the
person to life. Of course, it is only
right that the feeling is transient, for it is odious to distance oneself from
surface realities as flashbacks take flight.
But what is more enduring is the past that finds a definite
shape, form and structure in the present.
As I have mentioned time and again, the ultimate tribute to loved ones
that have passed on is to find ways to live life in the ways that they would
have liked me to. Whenever I find ways
to concretize my loving memories of them into actions, little or large, they seem to be brought to life in a manner that is still transient – you don’t
need me to tell you that death has a stunning, irreversible finality – but the
residual positive effects and vibes seem to last that much longer. This thought, at least to me, applies to important
relationships too. The members of my family and circle of friends that I continue to have deep bonds with
are the ones where I not only have a long, wonderful history with but also have
a strong sense of a shared ‘present’, not just a shared past. The anticipation of new memories that get created
on account of being relevant to a set of people is quietly comforting. So comforting that it achieves the impossible
task of stacking up to the magnificently tall structures – made up of memory
cells – that I have built up in my mind.
I suppose that moderation is vitally
important in ensuring that thoughts of the past, positive or negative,
do not consume the present. It is
imperative to respect and cherish the mutability of the present and future as
much as it is to resign to the constancy of the past. That way, images from an earlier time can exist
as a well-edited prelude to the scene that is about to unfold. That way, the narrative arc of our lives
continues to have all the elements of suspense and surprise that the boon that
is life throws at us.
