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| René Magritte, The Lovers |
From the old familiar faces and
Their old familiar ways
To the comfort of the strangers
Slipping out before they say
So long
— Run Baby Run, Sheryl Crow
That’s when I found an interesting fact about memories. They are like those Russian dolls, the big one opens to a smaller one, which opens to an even smaller one, and so on. I kept opening pieces of memory only to find more inside, waiting to be opened in an endless journey taking me further, deeper down the roads long forgotten. That winter noon led me to that crow, and then another that I remembered lying on a roadside, guts spilling out, ants making a feast on half-rotting intestines that already were sporting a sickening shade of teal.
I remembered the mountain goat that my mom kept as a pet bleating at the sight of the crow. Well, a goat will always be a goat, and it followed me on most days on my way to school. So bloody humiliating it seemed at the time. That was before we left the little town that saw me running down my first soccer field, falling off my first bicycle, choking on my first chocolate fudge. I remembered taking the first drag on my first smoke at that very town. I vividly remembered the peas my mom served me that night. Amber peas floating on pearly melted goat cheese making acquaintances with crab meat and some sour sauce. Those were quieter days. Gentle. Calm. Laid back. Monotonous.
That was before I started to run. And, those were bad days. Real bad. Abes died, Shib died, and Saif too. It rained death. Death hung over us like filthy sunset clouds painted with factory slime, red and black and gray and gang green. Raja vanished, never to be heard or seen again. Murad got caught. He was tired of running. And, Pat… ah! Pat. They said he turned insane. They said he had an intimate encounter with the divine. They said he was just pretending a lot of fluff and stuff. But, they always were ignorant. Nobody knew Pat, not even us. He liked it that way.
When did the run begin? I didn’t know, probably sometime after I was done with my medical studies. Why were we running? I didn’t want to remember. Too painful, muddled and stupid. Not worth it. When did it end? Now, that I recalled with the sharp precision of a surgeon’s scalpel freshly bathed in glutaraldehyde. I stopped running when Raja’s kid sister Ash appeared at my door, slightly out of breath, somewhat trembling, heavily drenched in rain, and totally demolished by the look in her eyes. She came to seek a shelter, and I was the only one left of us. And, she looked heartstopping beautiful. So vulnerable, yet so ravishingly adorable.
I packed up, and moved to the city, bringing her along. It was a very small bag that she carried all her stuff in, as if she was ready to run again. Probably she had do some amount of running to before she reached me. She never talked about it. I remembered the bag – red and black, leather and hemp, with a braided strap and a bell metal buckle shaped like a hippie peace sign, three zippered pockets in the front. The rush of the memory train hit a wall exactly at that moment. How in the fucking hell did I forget what she looked like? I remembered everything – the breeze, the fragrance of her hair, the coolie who helped me get my heavier luggage into the taxi, the warm tarmac, the sun shining down hard… even the color of her nail polish (black, it was always black). Not her face.
