Yesterday once more

And we speak of things that matter, with words that must be said.... The song carried down to where I was, lying on my back, praying for ...

And we speak of things that matter, with words that must be said…. The song carried down to where I was, lying on my back, praying for the heat to let up. A prayer abruptly halted by the sudden rush of images that fought for attention. A connection established, courtesy a well-loved song from those days.

And so from 1999 I rewound to past years. To the leisurely promenades we’d take (the three girls, the troika!), sauntering down Sainikpuri’s well-walked paths. All the while aided by some Simon and Garfunkel and the Eagles. And yes, those wonderful Gulzar-R.D. Burman combos. That was life as I knew it.

And every now and then, I sneak glances to the way we were. I’m an incorrigible backtracker. One of those who think that the past is as important as, if not more than, the present. One reckons it is easier to keep moving on, to shrug off the baggage that might stand in the way and relegate it to some obscure corner of the mind that you don’t ever visit again. I’ve heard this being said oftenenough. I’ve said it myself too.

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But I still confess to a strange tendresse for the memories of days past. Days spent agonising in a classroom of about 100-odd girls, trying to figure out the complex gender system of the Parisian tongue. The time I discovered that the chemical equation of elements and yours truly were bound to be a rather volatile mix. Not to mention the manner in which we conned the college watchman and smuggled in a movie into what were meant to be strictly academic surroundings. Of course, there was the occasional heartbreak, that acrid taste of failure, that terrible loss of a friend… but one went with the flow.

So it’s difficult not to cling to such recollections — whether good or bad. Partly because it has now become part of my consciousness and partly because it’s the only barometer of life I have. How else do I measure the present?

My father talks about the Bombay of his youth — they were the original Byculla boys, the guys who peopled a bustling and urbane metro, themorning students who walked down Breach Candy, who danced the cha-cha-cha and hummed the Platters. Today, he’d rather not go to Mumbai — not if he can help it. The picture has changed too much for him to relate to it anymore. The past, alive and teeming, always intrudes.

So when friends meet and conversations drag the night skies in, the elves of the past show up, dusting the place with piquancy. It’s really addictive, we say with sheepish smiles, after another round of remembrances. Surely we should be moving on… how long do we grin at graduate days, our antics.

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And yet we return — to those defining moments of the wonder years. To seek comfort in the feel-good recollections, to smile at the changes that have graced our life cycles, to remember that we have actually come this far — all the bumbling, all the straining notwithstanding — and maybe life is not too bad after all.

Of course, it would be asinine to let the past get in the way. Here’s a case in point. Vignettes of the Indian cricket teamwinning the Prudential World Cup in 1983 are here, there and everywhere. That was well done. But how long can we seek gratification in that one high point? The moody, see-sawing fortunes of the present lot can surely do with a little more application and a little less nostalgia. But nostalgia per se, devoid of such excessive homage, is good for the soul.

So I pledge allegiance to my cache of memories — modest as they might be. Acknowledging the overriding relevance of the present but also open to an occasional walk down the road. I reckon I shall always return to it — like I would to a precious, dog-eared, somewhat tattered piece of writing. For should life kick in my teeth, I know I have a friend I can turn to.