For the Love of Words
I remember the fire; the fire was something that happened only in the cartoons when a mouse lit a bomb, or the cat lit the rocket, and each would place it at the end of each other’s tail. Then they would skyrocket to space and turn into stars.
What I have now is a salmagundi of photographs. To gather them all on the floor, to look at them in a new light, to guess their order of arrangement and place it back in the box constitutes the act of remembrance. And every time the act is repeated, a slightly different version of story blooms.
He does not notice the small station with its board sign wearing off. He does not spot the old man waving the flag. The old man is my father. I am trailing behind him, barefooted, squinting to glimpse the passengers.
The train does not stop here.
If there’s anything that you must hold on to for dear life, it is your memory. It is a reminder of a life lived, albeit etched with suffering and hardships.
The spasmodic cough of father’s old scooter bellowing, “Leave me leaning by the Banyan tree, under its shade I shall remain for years hence.”