Edited by: Bhavika Rawat
Dear Memory,
You are such a fickle little thing. Some days, you hold onto the most unnecessary details and yet, you let go of the moments that were golden, the ones I would have wrapped in silk and kept safe in the attic of my mind if only you had warned me they were slipping away.
I do not remember every joke I have laughed at with my best friend. I do not remember every time my mother kissed my forehead when she thought I was asleep. I do not remember every compliment I have received from someone I respected. And I hate that I don’t. But oh, the joy when someone brings a forgotten moment back to me!
“Do you remember how we used to always select each other to help distribute chocolates to the class on our birthdays?”
No, I didn’t. But now I do. And it’s beautiful.
My sister is forever exasperated with me because I never remember the inside jokes we shared on those sleepovers long back before college even started. She’ll bring up some ridiculous phrase we coined years ago, expecting me to laugh, only to be met with my utterly blank stare—at which point she groans, “Asthayi, meko pta tha tumko yaad nai hoga” (Asthayi, I knew you wouldn’t remember this)
It feels like being given a gift—a piece of myself that I didn’t even know was missing. A childhood friend brings up a secret handshake we made, and suddenly, I can see my smaller self, giggling with pinkies intertwined. My boyfriend reminds me of the time we first held hands laying side by side on the tiny bed in my dorm and I picture it so clearly that I wonder how I could have ever forgotten. These memories come back like fireflies in the dark—glowing for a second, making my heart ache with something I can’t name.
Like the time my grandfather dropped me to my tuition everyday, never letting go of my index finger, and I, utterly ungrateful, begged him to get me a packet of Lays the entire way. I had forgotten about that until my mother mentioned how he used to chuckle at my fixation with junk food. Now, I can almost feel the warmth of his hands again, rough and steady, a small anchor to my childhood.
Or when my brother reminded me how we used to watch WWE together and rank our favourite wrestlers—how we tried to imitate the moves on each other, and ended up with a big fat bruise on my head one day. I had forgotten the details, but as soon as he said it, the memory unraveled like an old film reel—our laughter echoing in our tiny shared room, trying to hide the bump on my head from our mother.
Or those times when my cousins and I held dance competitions, eagerly taking turns as both contestants and judges. One sister swears that two of us always conspired against her, unfairly giving her lower scores just to secure our own victory. I have no memory of this so-called rigged competition, but the way she tells it—the exaggerated betrayal in her voice, the dramatic protests, the way we supposedly cackled as we held up our makeshift scorecards—makes me believe it happened, makes me feel like I almost remember it.
This makes me wonder: How many pieces of me are floating out there in other people’s minds? How many smiles, how many quiet moments, how many echoes of laughter exist only because someone else remembers them, remembers me?
I suppose that’s the beauty of it. Memories are not just ours to keep; they belong to the people who lived them with us. They exist in the spaces between us, in the glances shared across crowded rooms, in the way an old song can pull two people into the same moment even if they are miles apart. I think about the people I have met, the ones who have left their handprints on my life, and I wonder—do they remember me the way I remember them? Or do they remember something more that I have already forgotten? Maybe when we meet again, I can see their eyes glow bright by telling them a story they don’t have in the folds of their brain anymore.
I wonder if my voice has ever been the key to unlocking someone else’s lost memories. If I’ve ever casually mentioned a moment from years ago and watched someone’s face light up with recognition. The thought makes me smile because it means that, in some way, we hold pieces of each other’s pasts.
And isn’t that what love is? Not just romantic love, but the love of friendship, of family, of the people who have walked alongside us in this fleeting life. It is in the remembering. It is in carrying each other’s stories, even when our own minds decide to let them go.
So, dear Memory, I have a request. If you must let go of things, at least let them be caught by someone else. Let them rest in the minds of those I love, so that one day, when I least expect it, they can hand them back to me, wrapped in nostalgia and happiness, and I can say, “Oh, I wish that had stayed in my mind.”
And then, for a fleeting moment, it does. And I promise to myself that I am going to keep it this time.
It escapes again.
With all my love (and a tiny hint of exasperation),
Me