| Diary of a Neurotic | ||||||
|
November 28, 2002 Memory is not written in stone, it is highly susceptible to reconstruction. So much of what we remember of our own part is nothing more than a mirage. The bell rings and its time to go home, I search for him amidst worried, tired and some excited parents. I hear someone call my name and I turn around to look, there he is, sunglasses on top of his head, smiling under his thick black beard, eyes crinkled at the corners. Immediately I surrender my horrendously heavy school bag to him and he asks me how many kids I beat up today at recess. He’s driving me home, chatting like a chirpy bird and even before he makes the stop, I know what he’s going to say, “I have to say hello to my friend!” and I know why he’s stopping, the traditional stop he makes to the store to bring back all my favorite goodies, my favorite part of the day, but I act innocent. I think he bribed my liking for him through chocolates and candies. He slides back in his seat, “My friend sent these for you” he smiles again, he smiles all the time. Like a greedy 6 year old I peer in the bag excitedly and gobble the loot quickly, often forgetting to offer some to him. I remember sitting in the back seat, gloating over my treasure of story books, ribbons, mouthfull of toffees and speech unrecognizable I exclaimed, “You know you’re the best uncle, because you always buy me nice things, even when I don’t ask you”, he peered at me from the rear view mirror and smiled and for a second I saw something strange in his eyes, I didn’t understand it then and he said, “But you know what, one day you will be a little older, and you will see me walking on the street, I will call you but you wont recognize me, I will tell you I am Uncle Pasha, don’t you remember me? But as hard as you try, you won’t be able to remember me”. I got mad at him that day, mad at his surety at the future he had not seen and tried to reason with him as much as my 6 yr old capacity to argue allowed me but he stood firm. I told him I see him first thing in the morning when he drops me to school and when he picks me up and he’s going to do it until I’m older and I don’t need to go to school but he just shook his head in disagreement, smiling at this too. I know we had this argument a lot of times and I think it was then that I made a mental note; put a flag on this memory, his image engraved in the deep corners of my mind, never to forget him. I’m 23 now and the memory is still immaculately clear and now I wonder, if one day I’m walking on the street, and a see a man with a thick black beard, smiling for no reason and I call his name, will he be able to remember me? (8:39 PM) ~`~
Comments:
Post a Comment
|
|
|||||
