Edited by: Samaira Kumaran
Dhondu Pant was the byname of Nana Sahib, Tantia Tope, or Baji Rao?
The trivia questions card from a game night at home still rots behind my transparent phone cover, in company with the stickers my friend won from a stall at The Great Ashokan Weekend. The back of my phone traces my closest friendships from Mumbai to Delhi.
The pink hibiscus stamps itself beside my Instagram username, in my poetry, on a poster in my dorm room, and in every answer to “What is your favorite flower?” Younger Saniya’s preoccupation with growing hibiscuses in her balcony garden has etched a permanent love for the plant in my heart. I find my childhood in its nectar guides and flaky anthers.
The Jerry Mouse plush toy wears the same animated expression as the first time I saw him at six years old. My Lhasa Apso yanked off his nose long ago, and cotton juts out of this nose-void, but I could never bring myself to throw him away. He reminds me of my older sister, reaching over the counter to purchase her Tom plush while I clutched Jerry eagerly beside the payment counter.
From the Swarovski necklace that adorns my collarbones to chewing gum wrappers that, thanks to my ability to ascribe emotional value to everything I see, avoid seeing the bottom of the trashcan, I’ve woven every item I own into the tapestry of my life. Each object I keep close to my heart recounts memories of a fond story, person, or place that has shaped me into the person I am today.
As I approach my 19th birthday with the memory of a 90-something-year-old who barely remembers what she ate for breakfast, the constant fear of losing grip on my most cherished memories whispers maliciously into my ears. This amnesia is how I’ve acquired this talent for transforming meaningful and meaningless objects into markers of what makes me myself,leaving traces of my personality wherever I go. Now, losing track of who I am is cured by a simple stroke of the Kajal that makes me look like my mother or by fiddling with the jeweled elephant my best friend gifted me before leaving for university.
This amnesia is also the basis for why capturing moments, in any shape or form, is so close to my heart.
While sentimental hoarding is comforting and convenient, I’ve wondered how I could preserve my memories without taking up physical space. Whether on my 10-year-old camera, in unorganized words, or a rough sketch, I’ve developed a knack for recording my favorite moments. Exposed to all possible creative outlets from a very young age, I couldn’t possibly pick just one as my predominant form of expression. My ultimate goal, however, is to document the emotions, the events, and the most microscopic details of what I have experienced in a manner vivid enough for my future self or a third person to live through the experience. From 9-year-old Saniya’s descriptive diary entries to her amateur sketchbook illustrations, this habit has etched itself into every fabric of my daily routine for as long as I can remember.
In anticipation of turning older, with my bag of trinkets overflowing, I’ve been forced to reconsider how long my hoarding tendencies can continue. I’ve realized that these objects, while dear to my heart, are mere vessels in which I carry memories through the sea of thoughts gushing in my head. Each time I pick up one of these vessels, I reminisce about the experience with a slightly lesser intensity than before. Perhaps memory is less about preservation and more about reinvention—each time we recall something, we shape it anew, coloring it with our present emotions and thoughts. In that sense, maybe the real act of remembering is not in the hoarding of objects but in finding ways to relive the emotions they once held.