Memory: What it means to me.
Memory. Memoria. Errinerung. Memorie. Cuimhne.
Since childhood, I have been fascinated by two things: Literature and the Human Mind. Eight months ago, in my quest to bring about an amalgamation of the two, I stumbled upon an exciting, fascinating and upcoming field of inter-disciplinary study: Memory Studies. Since then, there has been no looking back.
In these eight months, not only have I thoroughly enjoyed the research, but, I have also come to establish a deep, personal connection with the very idea, the very concept, of memory itself. Neuroscientists, Psychologists, Historians, Archaeologists and Linguists across the world have established their own, private connections with memory. In this post, I would like to speak about my relationship with memory; about what it means to me.
Despite the intense academic nature of my engagement with memory, my understanding of the same is at a very personal level. For me, memory is like the sky- omnipresent, vast, and boundless. I find it waiting for me at every nook and corner, at the bends, curves and edges.
I find memory cozily snuggled amidst the pages of my books on the bookshelf. I find it in every underline, in every scribble on the page, reminding me of the characters I had once known with great intimacy, having lived in their minds, towns and cities for a brief period. The photographs on the wall, the sea-shells inside shoe boxes, and old, dusty notebooks- I find memory even there, as I reminisce about the people, the places and the time gone by. When I gaze at the table calendar, memory gives me a pat on the back, as I begin to miss the same day of the previous year. I find memory in music, for, every song I play reminds of my past, of how I reacted to the melody, the very first time I heard it.
Geography doesn’t deter memory from following me, wherever I go. If I take an evening walk down the road to the post-office, memory strolls by my side, playing a documentary of the street’s astonishing metamorphosis: the trees have grown taller, the co-operative bank has changed its sign board, the erstwhile yellow house has been newly-painted blue, and, the dogs that used to guard the street are no longer there. It is during these pockets of solitude that I truly experience the joy of re-discovering, of re-constructing a new memory of the place, by replacing fragments of the old.
However, it is in connection with the others- family, friends and acquaintances, that memory displays its true depth. I look at my brother’s red shorts hanging on the clothesline, and I can hear his laughter from the football match he played a week ago, wearing that uniform. From the window, I notice that the lamps no longer line the balcony adjacent to me. Their absence reminds me of a lot of things- the firecrackers in the air, the new clothes and delicious food. Together, they take me back to Diwali.
Memory is particularly gifted in the art of triggering a ‘domino effect’. All it takes is a thought, and, one after the other, I revisit incidents and events that I should have forgotten, but hadn’t. Dreams, goals, nightmares, wounds, happiness; every emotion, every action: I see memory in every aspect of my life, waiting for me, waiting to absorb the ever-changing plethora of my reactions.
Memories: they are complex, they are mysterious. Our civilizations, our histories, our families and our own identities, rely on memory for their existence. What is Literature, but an ever-expanding universe of memories articulated in beautiful language, waiting to be read, waiting to become a part of the memory-network of another individual?
I connect deeply with the concept of memory, primarily because it is just like us: it is fallible, complex, mysterious, and, above everything else, essential.
