Memories...

Memories have a way of coming up on you.

Sometimes, they creep up ever so slowly, like the little plants that my mother grows, opening up their leaves and flowers one by one for you.

Sometimes, they just hit you like an avalanche, flooding you with long-forgotten people, names, faces, places and reminiscences.

I had not travelled to Dockyard Road, Mazagaon for many years now. But in the past couple of months, I have had about 4-5 opportunities to travel through that area. Nothing special happened the first few times, but the last time a couple of days ago, while driving down the route that I used to take by bus No.45 years ago while going to school, I happened to glance at a building down the left.

And the memories just came flooding back. All the good ones.

Of all my childhood friends from school. All my ‘best’ friends who I have lost touch with over the passage of time.

Of climbing up the narrow flight of stairs of Mudeer’s house, wondering how does a fat person manage, then deciding ourselves that fat people do not stay in this building.

Of being fascinated by Khalid Jamsa playing with his remote controlled car which his father had brought from the US. Khalid himself moved to the US a few years later, and we may not even recognise each other if ever we pass by.

Of Vyjayanthimala, the first girl outside of my family to call me brother. It was the glance at the building where she lived that got back all these memories.

Of watching in horror as Naseem Khan removed his gold ring and dropped it in aqua regia, just to confirm that it actually dissolves gold. And then – horror of horrors – nonchalantly pouring the content down the drain! I did meet a lot of friends at Naseem’s wedding nearly two decades ago; and that was the last time.

Of Salim, who I shall never meet again; Mudeer informed me at Naseem’s wedding about his passing away

Of Michael and Peter, our Headmaster’s sons. Michael was also my classmate, and was the subject of admiration and envy among a lot of us, because of his long sidelocks only on one side of his face.

Of Clifford, my classmate who stayed virtually opposite the school. Everytime we passed his building, we used to get the whiff of a very strange smell coming from various houses. Years later, when I used to go to Bandra on work, I got the same smell, which I realised was of pork being cooked.

Of a lot of others, who I had completely forgotten about, but I remembered their names and the benches on which they used to sit in school.

Of my teachers – all the ones I liked, and some I did not.

And most of all, of that aunty who I will not recognise if I ever met her, but who I have never forgotten. Our school bus had not come in the morning. My father, thinking that I have missed it, gave me 10 paise to go by the BEST bus (public transport). Upon reaching school, I found that our principal had passed away and a holiday had been declared. But I now had no money to go back.

Upon seeing me standing outside the school weeping, this poor aunty who possibly stayed in the one of the neighbouring buildings and came to church there, consoled me and thrust the 10 paise I would need to take the bus home in my hands, just mumbling, “pray for your aunty, child”.

I took the 10 paise the next day to return them, but never saw her again.

It is more than 35 years since that incident, and I cannot remember her face, but as I stood at the spot where she had consoled me, the sunlight streaming on the crying child’s face, and her bent weak frame thrusting possibly her very hard-earned 10 paise into his hands on that morning just came back flooding again.

As I said, memories do have a way...