Memory is like the wet sticky clay you often find in the banks of rivers just after a high tide.

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If you’re careful, you’ll like the silky soft touch of it, almost creamy. It feels like it would glide through your fingers just as you try to pick it up. It flows, not quite like the sand in beaches, yet just like that you can’t really hold it right in your hands. But it will always leave something behind. A little smudge here, a little speck there. You’ll find it in places later on, unaware that it had made its mark. And if you are not careful, it will stick to almost everything, that too without you being aware at all. You will realize it much later, from an association you would consider even yourself incapable of making. But it would be there. Reminding you of the exact moment every time you notice it. Memory, is quite the same.

You’d remember something happy when you pass through that street by your old neighborhood. And many times it is not because you have seen something. No, sometimes, it would be just a smell. You find yourself wondering if there was ‘something in the air’. And more often than not, it might just be that. The annoyingly repulsive odor from the machine shop. The very mild, almost inferior fragrance from the garden of the rich looking bungalow just by the roadside. And the mouth watering scent from the stall where the lady is cooking the best fries. 

You can almost taste the hot delicacies. The crispiness and the heat, mixing just the right way to annoy, tease, and please your tongue all at the same time. And then the flavor hits. The spice, the salt, the slight tang of tamarind that the lady puts in almost all of her recipes. Not that there are many. You feel giddy without really caring for the couple hundred or so calories you would have ingested just for the sake of it. 

You’d remember all this without having to really experience them, and you’d be drawn back to the time when you came here almost every day. And just like that, without you really trying to, your mind would be ready to pick up something else. 

And many times it would really be something that you see. You might be walking down that lane, completely engrossed in the act of walking, determined to finish the two thousand four hundred ninety one steps remaining to crush the goal of ten thousand steps. And out of the corner of your eye, you’d notice the flutter of something familiar. You turn your head around so fast, you’d wonder if you’ve given yourself a whiplash. But then it would just turn out to be a black tumbling paper bag hanging from a hook on a pole. 

You turn back, to the way you were going. Coldplay plays through your earphones, not the right choice really for a long walk, but it gets the job done. It isolates you from the mundane, distracting hubbub of the busy street, and helps you focus on your steps, your breathing. You don’t turn on the noise cancelling though, because that would be plain irresponsible. And that is the gap through which the voice flows in. 

You don’t really hear it at first—your name being called. But it repeats again. And this time, you do hear it. The voice is just as soft as you remember, but the pitch is high, intent on grabbing your attention. You turn around again. And you find that the paper bag you saw earlier was not the only thing you had noticed. You were right to feel that there was more. You find the dark haired girl standing by the same pole where the paper bag was stuck. All you needed was for her to speak up your name a couple of times to make you turn that extra few degrees and see her. 

You see the memories now. The old times ebbing just under the fine veil on your memories. But there’s something left aside. Not for long though. She walks over to you, the smile bright just as you remember it from back then. And when she’s right in front of you, she extends her hand towards you, a gesture, an invitation to shake hands.

“It’s really you! I was really surprised. It’s been so, so long, how’ve you been?” She asks. 

You hesitate, just for a fraction of a second. You take hold of her hand eventually. It’s the last straw. The veil is lifted. It’s as if the key to all the memories were ingrained into that gentle touch. You expect to be overpowered by all of this. You expect to crumble because of how much there was to that touch. You feel you should be exploding into a million pieces right now, unable to hold all of that. But nothing happens. 

You find yourself perfectly calm. You see all of those memories, not tinted in the deep red hues, not grainy and raw like it once was. The memories don’t put that sour taste in your mouth, nor does it invoke the nauseating feeling you thought was going to be the norm back then. You can no longer hear the shatter of that heartbreak. 

“I’ve been well. Yes, it’s been quite a while. It’s good to see you again after so long though…” You say, and the conversation begins.

You find yourself gently shaking the hand and letting it go. You’ve made peace. And evidently she has too. You’re beyond the past now. The memories linger, yes, like wet riverside sticky clay always does on your skin and clothes, but you know it’s dry now. And all you need to do is crumble it away. It’s just a stain on the fabric of your life. 

It’s not ruined, even though it’s not pristine anymore.

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