The terrace has a clothes line that can’t be seen in the dark. All of us walked through it and winced a little.

Somewhere far in the distance, we see smoke from a refinery or a factory or some such. We stand at the edge and watch it, our hands stuffed in our pockets, hoods covering our ears. It is cold; a lot colder than we are prepared for, but not so much that we can’t stand outside. The night is pretty much starless and what we see in the sky is what we wish to see, patterns from our mind.

He tells us a story from his childhood –pointing out places and locations in adjoining houses to make it real. It works to some extent because when he takes me by my wrist to show me where exactly he saw the disappearing figure in white, I suddenly don’t want to see it.

We listen to music from a phone; favourite songs and songs that mean something within. This always happens. The buzzed feeling always lends itself to feeling more vulnerable than you’d like to feel. We hum along, then sing with no inhibitions until our throats feel ripped.

We stumble down to fall asleep, the dark sky watching our backs, glad and disappointed at the same time.

His hands smelled of coins.

He used bus tickets as book marks. His books were always covered with newspaper - the glossy classifieds section. His fingers were wrinkled and thin and when I held them my hands would get some of the coins smell.

In the night, he snuck into the kitchen and ate icecream; his favourite flavour was coconut. He stuffed peanuts into his pockets, and ate them with extreme relish while looking out of the window. He once told me he liked omlettes more than he liked chocolates and that was saying something.

He would take apart alarm clocks and hair dryers and irons only to put them together eventually. He should have been an engineer. He loved gadgets. His electric shaver is still sitting somewhere in my cupboard, unaware that no-one will care for it with the same intensity again.

If he was here, I'd have shown him my writing. Of all the people I know, he'd be the only one who'd have understood it just the way I'd have wanted him to. 

The wind blew us away and threw us off a little. We were thrown backwards on the street, along the sea, past all the honking cars and expensive people. We were pushed back into a time, a couple of years ago, when we were regulars here, with our evening affection and our untold stories.

The street stopped in its tracks and the people went away. The words and thoughts from all those years that occurred there came back in a flood and surrounded us. We stood there, a large umbrella above us, reaching out gingerly to watery tales that we once shared. The flood never went away.

The sea was calm and the sky was orange, an unwavering aspect of all my good memories. The objects from back then came riding along around me – a pair of slippers, a blue toy, a paper napkin with my name on it.

After a while, we walked back through the flood. The wind had died down. The people begin to appear from behind corners, walking with determination that suggested that they never went away. They didn’t notice the flood, they moved quickly, their tired faces lacking any emotion.

We had dinner and left, talking and laughing. It was then that I realized that the flood was gone. It will be back though, swelling with freshly made memories.

We stood there and shared a moment.

One which was perfect enough to not want to change, yet not so perfect that you'd be afraid that you'd ruin it. Perfection, here, wasn't an absolute.

I remember what you said to me and I remember the tone of your voice. 

Many years from now, the words will fade. In the scratchy taped version in my head, your lips will form soundless words. I will, even then, remember the look on your face and the funny, fluttery feeling that I felt somewhere at the bottom of my stomach.

That little patch of time was swathed in layers and layers of emotion. I knew there were all sorts of feelings - awe, unbelievable happiness and the tingling surprise.

There was also some variant of fear; that I would never ever witness something so special ever again. 

Reeling.

The air smells of popcorn. There is a hush, the kind that comes with everyone's collected bated breath at something that's about to happen. They pass a cigarette back and forth, a ring of cherry lipstick and one of beer breath. The usher doesn't bother even though smoking isn't permitted.

It's a rundown theatre that shows movies that not many want to go for. Korean action films and French films where women wear perfume and eat croissants with the Eiffel tower in the background. Movies where people walk out out the theatre wanting to making their own. The variety where people jot down notes on the back of ticket stubs because this isn't just film, it's an education.

They watch these movies every weekend and go back to discuss it over tea.They write down disconnected sentences which spark off a journey of thoughts. They look over into each other's writing because sometimes the best work just needs inspiration worthy of it. They write stories that get locked into their desks at home or forgotten in old notebooks. 

The day the theatre is torn down, they stand outside not sad but a little lost. There's a void on the weekend that alcohol doesn't fill and regular cinema doesn't satiate. The writing is forced to the point of unbearable. 

They don't make it as writers or movie-makers. They never planned to. They realize that they needed something to hold everything together. And while that can be replaced, you'd rather you didn't have to. 

Home.

We became who we are in a house with checkered tiles and pale yellow walls. We put away our lego pieces in a blue bucket with a lid. We played cards, the plastic variety with pictures of fruits and coconut trees on one side, sitting cross legged on the bed. We kept our books away in a wooden cabinet with glass doors.

The walls had tiny doodles, our names carved in child-like handwriting and random, disconnected words which may have meant something to us at that time. The wall next to the telephone once had phone numbers jotted with felt pen, because clearly nobody bothered themselves with diaries. It used had a funny feel to it, untidy but comfortably familiar. Then the walls got painted and the numbers found their away into more advanced, and less messy, technology.

The kitchen always smelled good and the refrigerator always atleast one thing that made us happy, ice-candy sticks with the cheap paper sticking to them or leftover pieces of cake with a spoon frozen in it, from a someone else’s mid night snack.

We are still becoming people we want to become in the same house, with the memories of all those years lurking behind doors and lying silently amidst dusty books.

In the nights, we peep from behind the curtains and watch the street slowly wrap up its day; boisterous trees, sleeping dogs and twinkling lights from homes of people who have also probably lived there forever.

The weather is deliciously gloomy. We stand, coughing, in the smoky shop which sells rolls. It rains ferociously behind us. The rain water rolls of the umbrella onto my bare arms while we walk out of the store looking for an auto.

There is nothing particularly noteworthy about the evening, but I know I'll remember it later. In the memory categories in my head, this will come under non specific memories.

There is always a strange feeling at the bottom of my stomach on Sunday nights. Mostly impending Monday morning blues. It is, as of now, mercifully overpowered by the smell of food and the tingling feeling that comes with knowing that I'll look back at this stray memory in the future. And that it will make me smile.

Chai.

There is something absolutely gorgeous called Iranian chai, which is found in old, slightly musty places with red checkered table cloths sandwiched between the table and the glass top. 

There is always the old man with a fur cap sitting at the entrance, his big yellowing eyes looking magnified from behind his thick glasses. The time stops and watches the world go by,  as the old man hits a little bell signalling over a hunched waiter. The waiter has a towel on his shoulder which he uses to mop tables even before the people vacate their chairs.

The tea is hot and sweet, with cardamom and only a whiff of ginger. The tea cups are non descript and shapeless, but it doesn't matter. The tea is best consumed on dark, rainy days when the sky looks particularly gloomy. 

The small, slightly burnt bun slathered with delicious blobs of butter, which accompanies the tea, becomes a part of your memories which remain untouched for a long time. 

Then many years later, when you walk past a defunct Iranian joint, you tell your friends how you once missed an English Literature lecture to have bun maska and chai for ten rupees. 

I had a dream last night where we playing life size Scrabble. I pushed Scrabble tiles, each the size of a small blackboard. ‘Wreck’, that’s the word I made.

It got me a lot of points but you made fun of me for being out of shape. You threw your head back and said, “Weak person!” I remember being mad at you and saying, “Why don’t we see you move some tiles around, if you’re so strong.” And you did, with enviable ease. I don’t remember what word you made, but knowing you, it was probably worth a hundred points.

I woke up, my mind was still caught somewhere between the large scrabble tiles.

I thought of how we’d play Scrabble online; a monsoon three years ago. I remember how much fun I had playing, even though you always won. That was a first, up until then I was annoyingly competitive and enjoyed a game only if I won. You always amazed me with how well you played; an extra letter somewhere, a fifty extra points and a whole lot of awe.

Some things will remain unchanged. Even a decade later, if we sit down and play a game, you’ll still win. And for a long long time to come, if some says Scrabble, my thoughts will instantly find you.

He craved curd rice; the authentic variety not the insipid kind that the canteen sold at lunch.
Ammachi made it in a big steel bowl, with sour curd and fresh rice and pickle; always mango pickle where the pungent after taste coated his tongue for a while.

Hurtling along in buses through the muddy roads of a small village in Kerala, he would wait to arrive at Ammachi’s house, amidst all the mangoes and the pineapple jam. Then his Ammachi would wait for them outside and he would run to her, his small feet whipping up a miniature dust storm. She always scooped him up in a big hug and she always kissed his cheek. She was the only person who was allowed to do that, he hated being kissed. Ammachi had a little moustache, tiny whiskers under a small nose. He would always rub it while she was asleep. He was just curious, moustaches were for men. Ammachi’s moustache always tickled him when she kissed his cheek.
Ammachi smelled of a mix of talcum powder and sweat and something else, perhaps some kind of fruit. She had a smell you would associate with old people, that always got caught somewhere in her clothing. Her hair always smelled of coconut oil. Her hugs always smelled of a happier time.

He always got a 500 rupee note every summer. She knew he didn’t use it, but she gave it anyway. Don’t all little boys need someone to give them things their parents refuse to give them? Money and unlimited jam on warm toasts where no one asks you to stop eating so much sugar? He always had bread for dinner and no one was allowed to question that; his Ammachi just wouldn’t have it.

As the evenings grew darker and the crickets grew louder and he would sit with his Ammachi on the verandah eating tapioca chips. The helper who was possibly as old as the house would make faces at him from behind a wall. He would make faces back, his face stuffed with chips. They would sit there until the mosquitoes got the better of them and then they’d go inside the house; another day, that in retrospect was really something, having ended silently.

Among these whirling thoughts, he realized that his craving for curd rice had given way to his craving for several other things.




Although it is really hard to recreate something so special, I thank my friend Ashish for letting me make an attempt.

On a very regular evening, I met you by the sea.

So much was said and so much was left behind because I feared it would never come out as sincere as I would have liked it to. I remember removing my chappals and keeping them next to me and sitting with my knees drawn towards my stomach. Peace; that's what I felt. These feelings are hard to find, trust me. Not too many of us can sit back and find ourselves in a moment where we are at peace with everything.

I have this memory safely tucked away somewhere. In my head and in my writing.

On long tiring days, I open this memory and remember the time when I was so happy that nothing could have possibly ruined that. No matter what goes down in the future, I know that this memory will remain untouched; covered with happy images of the sea and you. 

Wooden memories on warm days.

In the big cupboard, there sits an old wooden box. The box has an old time charm that is hard to miss. On the top, there are two red birds, brush painted and clearly in love. There are blue swirls on the side, dotted with small flowers that women pluck and swoon over.
There is a smell that comes with the box – of wood and grime, and old times. The smell conjures up images from a time long gone, where the air was perfumed and people had pocket watches. I can imagine my grandmother, walking around a room with high ceilings and lace curtains. A nameless flower tucked in the folds of her plait.
I can picture her opening this box, looking at the birds on the top, when their red was redder and their affection blossoming. The box holds her knick knacks. Butterfly shaped clips with wide set teeth, metal bangles from a fair, nail clippers with a picture of the sun, black and white pictures of her and her siblings at a railway station. I can imagine her looking at the pictures, running her hands over them. Her bangles rolling up and down her forearm, clinging together as though scared.
The box still has some of those things. The pictures have started to crumble, powdered memories in black and white. A lone metal bangle sits in there, the other having gotten lost somewhere along the way. There are other things too. Loose coins, that must have passed through many hands. Folded receipts of tailored clothes left in there for safe keeping.
I leave some of my things in there now, deliberately. Small pieces of jewellery and a passport sized picture of a 9 year old me; buck teeth and a school uniform.
I like to believe that one day someone will find these box and conjure up a memory of me. A memory of me preserving another memory. And perhaps eventually,  we’ll have a long chain of memories, all under the watchful eyes of the red birds.