I have always had a hard time looking at nostalgia from a rose coloured lens. Nostalgia, to me, is an unnecessary build-up for something that doesn’t exist anymore, almost a misplaced emotion. Read this article to find out how my relationship with nostalgia was strained before I even knew what that word meant.
Edited by: Sahana Inuganti
My grandmother was a religious person. The first thing she would do in the morning was light an incense stick and chant her morning prayers. This was her morning ritual and mine became waking up to the smell of agarbatti (incense). This woody-floral smell, with hints of spice and smoke brought me a sense of calm and comfort. The comfort of knowing I will be given a tight hug the moment I step out of bed. This smell of agarbatti and I often cross paths— in temples, shops, sometimes out of nowhere— and I am taken back to a time when 8 hours of sleep wasn’t a dream and breakfast meant paranthas with copious amounts of butter, not Instagram inspired avocado toast.
This might give you ‘hum sath sath hain’ vibes but I have a weird love-hate relationship with nostalgia. You know when you have had the most horrible day, everything that could possibly go wrong, went wrong and the only thing holding you together is the thought of that last slice of pizza left in the fridge? You get home, filled with hope and anticipation, only to find out it’s not there anymore. Turns out, your sibling decided that you are already overworked so they might as well do you a favor and get this task done for you. Nostalgia, to me, is exactly that feeling- an unnecessary build-up for something that doesn’t exist anymore, almost a misplaced emotion. It’s past its expiry date but, somehow, continues to linger on.
My relationship with nostalgia was strained when I probably didn’t even know what that word meant. One fine day, I found out that my best friend, who lived 2 blocks from my house, had to shift to Bombay. This was a friend I grew up with. I can’t think of my childhood without thinking of her. I vividly remember our first interaction. She had just moved to the neighbourhood and had come over to my house with her mom. They wanted to talk about the admission procedure of the school I was in. The second time we met was after she got into that school and came over with a packet full of Bounty as a ‘thank you’ gift. That was that. I don’t know if it was the chocolates or the fact that we went to the same school, in the same bus, from the same neighbourhood—there was no looking back. We weren’t friends anymore, we became family. We spent so much time at each other’s homes that I, to this date, remember exactly how her house used to smell ( Is it just me, or every house has a distinct smell that somehow perfectly captures the essence of the people living in it? ). The day she left involved a lot of crying but it also involved the realization that there are going to be these huge chunks of my day that I wouldn’t know how to fill. All of a sudden, I didn’t have someone to rant to about the kiss-ass class monitor, a house to go to for playtime, someone who’d introduce me to trendy things so I could go around pretending I am cool. My best friend no longer lived 2 blocks away. Even going past her lane and not ringing the doorbell to her house took some getting used to. Spending over 10 years together meant a barrage of memories. We used to sit on a specific seat in the bus every day. Now, sitting there made me think of all the things we used to do and would’ve been doing right then- waving towards that one guard bhaiya every day, sneakily buying Kurkure from the bus window during red lights, marvelling at the yellow Porsche that we’d pass by on our way to school. These things were just not fun (and low-key embarrassing) to do alone. That’s when I knew, making memories is great, remembering them on a cozy Sunday afternoon is too, but forcefully being reminded of them when all you are trying to do is get on with your life isn’t. There’s an emptiness, a subtle sadness associated with thinking about happy times. I once again found someone to go to school with, in the same bus, from the same neighbourhood—nostalgia. This relationship, however, was way harder to maintain than that with my long-distance best friend.