I Remember

I remember my first journey to play school. I was in a cycle rickshaw – those three wheel cycles that allow two people to sit on blue or orange seats on the back. I remember thinking what a treat it was to ride in the open.

I remember the name and face of the driver and of the servant my mother sent with me to the school. I think those journeys were a treat for her too.

I remember playing simple games. Jumping portholes and counting tiles.

I remember the squeal of laughter that burst from my heart when I was tickled. It still happens.

I remember my school playground and my kindergarten classes.

I remember the grey and white tiles with the orange benches lined up in a row.

I remember my grade 3 teacher – Gloria teacher we called her. I remember her noticing that I know my math but not how to copy the numbers from the board. That was the year I started wearing glasses and discovered that I had shockingly bad eye sight.

I remember the jeep parked in the school playground- it as greenish grey with a black step at the back. I remember standing in front of the jeep and sipping water from my brown Milton bottle when a ball came and hit the bottle. It was the year I broke my front tooth.

I remember my friends in my building – I remember I was the outsider among the sisters yet the common friend between the two.

I remember the balcony where we had secret meetings that everyone knew about. I can still smile at the innocence of plans made and secrets shared.

I remember the bulb my father installed in that balcony – the installation formalized our secret society of three.

I remember performing for our parents. We got some money I know but what I remember is that we also got the permission to climb up the steep slope which lead to the main road so that we could go visit Dig-inns. This was the new confectionery store that sold ice cream and sweets. I can still taste the flavor of the freedom I felt. I had arrived at the age of nine.

I remember being told we were moving cities. It was time to say goodbye to my friends and life. I hated the idea of something new.

I remember being the new girl at school at every school I went to after that. It was a routine that replayed in almost the exact same manner at each school. I would walk in tentatively watching the crowds of girls all huddled up into their own groups. I had to be introduced by a teacher after which all eyes were on me as I slid into the seat assigned and wished I could be invisible.

I remember the first girl who befriended me in my sixth grade. She became my friend for years to come. I think I will call her soon and perhaps say Thank You.

I remember the fire at Pratt Memorial School and being told to walk in straight lines. I remember leaving the lines to find a friends sister. We did find her right after we saw two flaming green window panes fall inches away from us.

I remember the jhaal moori and puchkas of Calcutta. I remember the old man who made jhaal moori outside my building and knew the exact blend of flavor that I liked.

I remember Mustakeen – the driver who drove me to school for four years. I remember feeling shocked to find out that a man so nice had two wives.

I remember Shanta Bai – the old maid who worked for us in Mumbai. I remember her arthritis ridden hands and the love in her eyes. I remember the hand on my forehead when I burned with fever. I always had some hands on my head when ill – if not my mother’s then they were hers. The love was probably almost the same.

I remember after time, looking forward to the change which was a part of my life. It became a way to start anew. I remember the feeling of wanting to leave things behind.

I remember the anxiety of being a new girl in 10^th grade – the final year of school in Mumbai. I remember no one befriending me. Ironically, my best friend was among those who ignored me. One of my close friends here is also among those from that very class and school. It’s funny how life turns out. How the things we want to erase sometimes give up the bonds we need to survive.

I remember the freedom of college. The rush of feeling like I had grown up and life had no boundaries - the rush of innocent crazy dreams.

I remember the little girl at Aaakanksha – a local non-profit organization that taught street children. I went there every Thursday for two years. I remember her runny nose, unkempt hair and gorgeous smile. Her laughter and glee at learning that C followed by an A and a T is actually an animal still warms my heart. I know I made a difference to that one girl for that one hour.

I remember the rush of my first article being published in Teens Today – a magazine targeted at teenagers in India. I recall I received a cheque and letter which made me weep as I hugged my mother because it meant that the thing I love could potentially and eventually be a way of life. I wish I held on to that dream.

I remember turning practical a year later choosing a career and a life that made sense. I know now that sense and sensibility are both over rated concepts. The rush of madness and impetuous dreams is what gives true strength and confidence.

I remember the day I got admission into a graduate school for my MBA. I knew I had taken that final step toward my future.

I remember my first corporate project at a small brokerage that operated out of a single floor in a residential building. I remember the awful shirts and mismatched trousers of the men on the floor. They spoke in loud tones, yelling numbers and other expletives. I remember wanting to run away – which I did when it seemed like everything they did was illegal.

I remember my first job and the 24 other people who joined the same company with me on that day. I remember the green carpet and my first desk and desktop.

I remember that the head of the office sat behind me. Watching my back got a whole new meaning.

I remember leaving my home Mumbai because my parents were making a new place a home. I never did leave it. Home is where your heart is and mine will always be the city that made me and accepted me.

I remember leaving my new home in Delhi to make yet another home with my husband in a place unheard of to me. I remember the raw fear that enveloped me on my flight to Kuwait.

I remember the emirates flight that took me there and the red seats that made me want to hurl.

I remember holding my niece wrapped in the green hospital sheet. Her red little face and tiny nose which perfectly matched her beautiful face - it was love at first sight.

I remember needed to start afresh again over and over – with memories to keep me going.

Hum of the Day

Last night I went for a writers' workshop here. We took a cue from a book called “I Remember” by John Brainard. We all have common memories it seems and can relate to each others memories like our own.The idea is that when you start each sentence with “I remember” you trigger memories which can then be used as inputs in ones writing. For me, it just triggered me writing again.