I am often told that my writing feels light to read, and I’ve always taken that as a compliment, which I hope it is. I like writing about what I cook and eat; what I feel about dogs, clothes, flowers, books and poetry; my relationship with my house and my city; and sometimes about grief. The pendulum swings quite predictably. Today, though, I am a bit unsure about what I want to say, but I want to stick to my resolution of writing every day. It’s too soon to give up!
Diwali weekend is tomorrow, and I am missing certain people very much. Which made me think about nostalgia and memories, and how life takes us away from who and what we love, in temporary and permanent ways.
Last week, my mother and I got a dreaded phone call, that a very dear family friend passed away in Hyderabad. I’d known him since I was three, and he was the first person I remember my father describing as “artistic”. He made sculptures out of fallen branches he found on the road, he made me little dolls for my birthdays, which you can see in the image. And was a very kind, gentle and immensely generous human being. I last met him two years ago, when I was in Hyderabad working on Saffron & Pearls, and was moved to tears on seeing him and his wife, after a long time. The world is poorer without him in it.
Apart from my deep sadness at his passing, I realise that I am also grieving for a time in my life that I can never revisit. A simpler time. A gentler time. Cities in their previous lives. Relationships that steadied me. People who gave of their hearts. As an only child, I am the sole custodian of my childhood memories. I think about this often, and I have to confess it worries me a little. Will I always remember the set of dolls Uncle R made for me? And the taste of the cake that his aunt used to bake for me? And the way the Bahrain-Saudi causeway looked on early morning drives with my parents? Is it okay for me to forget? And who am I remembering all of this for? What do my memories add up to? What do any of our memories add up to?

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