So today this happened. While I was coming home, at the trolley a man gave me a bunch of flowers and said you deserve them as you have a beautiful smile and I saw you on the train and I just bought them for you because you made my day. I was looking at him, thinking, “and …… ?” and questioned him with my eyes “what do you want ?”… he just smiled and said “you deserve them and thank you and walked away”, leaving me holding the flowers and making me lose my trolley connection. But that’s ok…
Apparently, I have been smiling a lot lately…. Another person told me that as well and this guy was from work “I see you around, you are full of vitality and always with a smile”…
[side note: I was talking to my boss today… and OH ! actually my dream is coming true ! He is going to entrust me with a project about some rare books & I almost swooned and I have this biggest smile on my face as I am typing this because RARE books… I love this collection at our art museum in philly and the curator once asked me out and I deeply contemplated about the advantages of dating this guy as I would get to have access to them, but I didn’t think my husband would be cool with it but my boy told me… “knock yourself out” when I informed him.
The other day when I was talking to “good news” girl about dream jobs, she and I almost squealed because we both love to work in such atmospheres like retail spaces: she said she loved it when she was working for pier 1 and I was telling her how much I love to work in a book store (esp a used book store) or a library. And as she is also into arts, I can’t wait to tell her about this and share my happiness with her.. tiny things which mean a world to us.]
On the trolley while coming home, a woman boarded who smelled like flour and sweet rice and she was indian and when she walked past me her glass bangles clinked and her sari swished and they brought back some sweet memories to my mind.
When I was about 8 years old, I had a fever and I was home with my mum and I was laying in her lap that afternoon and pressed my cheeks into the warmth of her stomach just for the comfort of knowing that there was someone I could close my eyes against without it growing dark. There was a thunderstorm and we had a tin sort of roof on the path which connected the main house to the kitchen and the rain drops were falling and falling making noises like the way my heart was beating. And also remembering my mum and how she would sit at the edge of her bed every evening and massage the soles of her feet, humming softly while the moon took a leap of blind faith across the windowpane. Her fingertips were almond-shaped and I would watch as she folded dough into more dough, folding creases into these little dumpling shaped things, molding a world that I could find familiarity in. The smell of the flour and the sweet coconut rice my mum cooked when it rained.
I’m eight years old again. I am tracing my mother’s palm onto a sheet of paper for the umpteenth time. I am folding her hands into my pocket. I am folding myself into her arms.
Somewhere, somehow, this all still exists, doesn’t it? There’s nowhere for thoughts to go but somewhere in a one-dimensional plane, into fragments so small, so thin, that I can stack them up into piles in my own mind. Where do lost places go ? Where do lost memories go ?
So many people have faded like newsprint wet with rain or tears, but there are some that touch you without leaving a mark on your skin, but whose absence you can feel like a dull thud in your chest every time you hear the faint echo of their kitchen slippers padding across the floor like whispers….Hush, hush, in the morning. Shh, shh, at night. And the light clinking of the glass bangles and swish of the elaborate saris…
Where have these memories gone? There is no orphanage where lost memories go, but somewhere, somehow, someone must’ve found and adopted these; like handmedowns, like treasures. I feel these little heartbeats of these memories as though I have given up my children for adoption. May be someone had adopted them and maybe my lost memories feel the warmth of someone else who is not their mother but who became precious.
Holding, holding. Never letting go. Hold on hold on… Someone is hugging a thunderstorm. Don’t let me wash away.. Someone is feeling someone love them like music on a tin roof. There are moments that mold themselves into the shape of you, form you, create you. Sometimes, your home can be four walls, and at other times, a roof can be a hair pinned into a low bun at the nape of a neck, a door that opens and closes in melody, or the smells of spicy indian curries, or the elaborate songs from movies. And somewhere in the back recesses of my mind, I am always eight again, ten again, fourteen again, closing my eyes and tracing a palm onto a sheet of paper and tucking them into my pockets. Somewhere, somewhere, somewhere. It all still exists. Home is only as far as I let my heart stray and I let my mind wander and all the time I smell that familiar flour and sweet rice and hear the bangles clinking like the happiness I felt when I skipped in the meadows behind my house.