Shards of memory

It was done stealthily. Not because I thought I was doing something wrong but because I thought I would be giving a pleasant surprise to my parents. No one was around when I was doing this, but once my handiwork was discovered I was disciplined — but rather mildly. My mother showed my handiwork to my father. They both laughed at my efforts but did not encourage them. My mother, sentimental as she was, dotingly preserved the result of my childish prank for years.

It’s funny this need to preserve such memories. I understood the urge only much later, when I had kids of my own. I have retained, dated and zealously kept among my important papers the unused 4-anna postal envelope which became precious to me after little Poppy, my child, had drawn on it the sketch of a train with its steam-engine emitting ribbons of smoke.

Then the grandchildren came and we were kept marvelling at their antics. When little Kabir thought that the TV set had gathered a lot of dust and needed some cleaning, he liberally sprayed water on it, using a sprinkler. The idiot box stopped working for days after that until the June heat finally dried up all the moisture.

We leave many things behind as we go through life. But there are some that remain with us — as reminders of the eternal circle of life.