The Magic of Memories
Students Who Remember: A Personal Essay
The man I live with went and picked up some bug from somewhere. Then, like the considerate, compassionate individual he is, he generously shared it with me. As a result, we were both down with something that left us feeling as if we had been pummelled and pounded to within an inch of our lives.
We stared, glassy-eyed, at each other and walked around like zombies when we were not lying in bed staring at the ceiling.
Every day, though, we would fortify ourselves with a cup of strong tea, a bowlful of seeds, nuts, and dry fruits, and two bananas and literally drag ourselves for a walk in the adjacent park. We would watch the sun rise, breathe in the air the rich green tree leaves filtered for us: and return feeling better.
Since we are in India for a couple of months, I have a lady who helps me with the housework. All of the housework. That helped me get by.
A week went by and I decided to venture beyond the Park. I went, alone, to the huge shopping centre which was a ten-minute walk from my house. I walked into the H&M and then the Marks and Spencer’s , and nothing looked interesting. That made me realise how sick I was; if clothes did not look interesting, then I really must be sick.
I tottered out, and from the other end of the wide corridor of shops, someone shrieked, “Suma Ma’am!” I turned and there was this attractive young woman running to me, arms outstretched. She gave me a bear hug that threatened to crack my bones, and then stood back to look at me, laughing and crying at the same time. “I am SO glad to see you,” she said, over and over again.
She laced an arm through mine and cajoled me into accompanying her to the nearest coffee house, where she plied me with cold coffee and eager questions. How was I? Where did I live now? How did I like Melbourne? How were my children? And all the time I was answering, she looked at me with her warm brown eyes, and my mind travelled back a decade and a half. I remembered this girl, Janvi Patel, who had auditioned for the Fashion Show Team, in the College I taught in. I had been the ‘teacher-in-charge’ at the time.
She had been a little waif, diffident and looking around in awe and terror at some of the more poised participants of the team. But hard work and sheer grit and determination had won, and she had gone on to ‘walk’ for several brand names even while she was a student. I was also her English teacher, and we met twice a week, in the classroom.
She tells me that she owns and runs her own Fashion House now, and has a team of models that ‘walk’ for her. She mentions names and shows. I gaze at her, happy for her, glad that she has been able to make her passion, her profession.
Once, long ago, fate had brought us together in an academic institution. Fifteen years later, she goes out of her way to acknowledge an English teacher she knew for a couple of years. “You were special, different,” she assures me. “You cared.”
And just like that, I felt stronger. Life became meaningful. Gratitude threatened to overwhelm me. When we parted, and went our separate ways, I felt warmth and wholeness flow through me.
I walked back home, feeling stronger than I had for the past couple of weeks.
I don’t know of any profession in the world that pays dividends all one’s life. Students return from homes and houses all around the world, and drop in to meet one, speaking of bonds that destiny had forged, which are unbreakable, and a faith that’s unshakeable.
I am grateful.
For the memories that make this magic possible.
ⓒ 2024 Suma Narayan. All Rights Reserved.
Shout to this thought-provoking piece by Federklecks in which he invites us to stop our mad race to keep up with the Jones, and start living.
Do read this mouth-watering piece about different kinds of cookies, by TzeLin Sam:
Neera Handa Dr writes abouts feelings, thoughts and sensations manifesting from love:
