Don't you
have those memories, which though distinct, have this inherently blurry
character to them? Dusty, memories that are characterized by the fact that they
aren't thought of often. But then, one day, they come flooding back with an
almost childlike glee, all consuming. And then you are rendered powerless to
the intensity with which you feel those memories, those emotions suspended in a
moment in time but felt as keenly as any other. Memories that are like sepia
tinged photographs. Sepia tinged memories.
The human
mind is a strange strange place, rife with memories, emotions, fears, hopes and
aspirations. One of the greatest follies of the human mind is to think that its
experiences are unique. Good or bad, whatever happens is happening for the
first time to them, that nobody in the world has felt the same, that nobody in
the world has done the same things, that nobody in the world will feel the same
and nobody in the world will do the same things. Even then, a human mind in
love is especially foolish. Prone to all the aforementioned follies, it also
makes the mistake of taking for granted that what it has with its beloved is,
again, one of a kind. It doesn't stop at thinking that nobody else in the world
has ever experienced what it is experiencing. No. It goes a step forward. It's
beyond the conception of a human mind addled with love to envisage a situation
where its beloved himself or herself has experienced the very same things,
possibly with the exact same intensity if not more, with another person. But
realization of how fallacious it is to think so inevitably hits home. Years
later when you think back to it, it is a sepia tinged memory.
A peal of
laughter. A long winding verandah. Rains lashing outside. A bookcase kept in a
forgotten corner. A child running, stumbling into the book case. Books crashing
to the floor, falling open. A flower falls out. Long forgotten. Whose was it to
begin with? Who gave it to whom? What was the story behind it? Sifting through
the treasure trove of memories that the human mind is, this is a sepia tinged
memory.
You are
walking on a path that had witnessed heartbreak once upon a time, a path that
was intensely personal and yet inevitably aloof. It had been a year since you'd
stood there picking up the pieces of what once was. And yet you were there,
again, picking up pieces, like parts of a jigsaw puzzle, of what you then were.
A college dance. A group of people dancing. You are standing in a corner, in
the shadows, alone. Always alone. A boy and girl come close, twirling,
laughing. You stare at them, almost as if in a reverie. Happy. So happy. But
you couldn't even feel nostalgic at the moment, could you? Because you were
never them. And never would be. And it was okay and you acknowledged the fact
that it indeed was okay. Somewhere in that group of people was another boy with
another girl. Blissfully unaware of your presence, too immersed in his bubble
to notice the changing patterns of the shadows, for when there are twinkling
fairy lights adorning the world, who stares at the shadows? Neither he nor you
envisage that your paths will cross in life. You, consumed by the shadows, do
not consider the possibility of falling in love again. He, in the arms of
another girl, does not think about falling in love again. But you do. You do
meet in the future and you do fall in love. But standing there in the shadows,
as you were, on a balmy may evening watching people dance under twinkling fairy
lights is a sepia tinged memory.
