A thin wooden strip adorns the dash of my car — something that visitors I pick up from the airport never seem to notice. To me it is not just a shard of wood, but a part of an old pear tree in my backyard that perished in a gruelling Chicago hurricane last year. Later, a crew of workers armed with chainsaws made short work of what had taken 15 years to bloom and bear fruit.

One thing about growing older is the accumulation of not just the memories of times gone by, but the things that go with them. Keepsakes are the lot of sentimental ones like me. Never a patient diary-writer, I stash away things only so that one day I may gaze at them and relive the moments that they made so precious. I have keepsakes from ever since I was four years old: a fond message from my grandfather from forty years ago, my grandmother’s annual gift of that gleaming fifty-paisa coin, now smudged with time. A frayed peepal leaf from my school courtyard is pressed between two notebook sheets. I smile sadly as I look at my college T-shirt signed by classmates who are today scattered all around the world.

I have preserved the stub from my first paycheck only to remember that feeling of freedom. Stowed in the attic is a boxful of letters from my future wife sharing secret moments of joy and sorrow, as I lived thousands of miles away. In another shelf is a tape of my newborn son’s babble from fifteen years ago. Later, came into this world a daughter, whose wrist was strapped with an ID band at the hospital, since she didn’t yet have a name of her own. For my years of travel, I have stacks of photo albums, cataloging my life’s journey and those of others dear to me all frozen in thousands of still frames.

... contd.