In my wallet, between my fading driver’s license and my gym receipt, I keep an old, folded train ticket.
Under the gold Starbucks card bearing my name, is a scrap of smooth white paper from whose face, time has wiped away ink (but not the mental image of the hand that gave it to me).
And in the side pocket, along with the loose change is a zipper tab, long detached from its owner.
I am so rich.
This is part of my Seasonal Nostalgia series.
I Also Miss You In The Winter
Like a long forgotten, but much loved sweater, the memory of him tumbled into sight, when she was taking one of her solitary walks. She paused outside his door and stood for a long time, before walking away.
When she got home, hours later, there were footprints outside her door, matching his shoes.
Follow my writings on https://www.yourquote.in/ideasmithy
For every love that fails, remember there was a lover who thought you might succeed together. Even if that mistaken, misguided lover was you. Live that poor soul’s life for a full minute each time you fall down the memory hole.
There is a little known corner in that place in your mind where Nostalgia resides. In it, a ramshackle hut bears the name, ‘What-if Shop’. If you brave the journey to find that place, you find it stocked in incomplete wishes, unfulfilled desires and half-remembered dreams.
The What-if Shop stands true, even as life places hurdles in your way. He who wears out a clear path to this place, lives forever in a life lit by an unknown lamp. The shop places no prices on its wares. The What-if Shop is hard to find but it rewards its patrons well.
This has been a year of such drastic changes and shifts that my whole outlook has been the here and now – surviving these. But I am a creature of nostalgia and the past doesn’t impede me. It teaches me, it nurtures me and it gives me fodder for the future.
This Sunday, I attended a storytelling session organised by Spill Poetry. Bring personal stories only, they’d said. I approached the stage with no prior preparation for the first time in nearly three years. Poetry and Spoken word have become such polished, seasoned ventures and I’m nothing if not competitive. But oral storytelling? I had no references.
I started to weave a tale from something that happened to me in 2005. At the time, it happened so quickly and in such an over way, I barely had a chance to notice how much it changed me. But it did – me, my relationship with the city and my sense of security, home and independence. I overshot my time limit but the organisers were kind enough to let me continue and the audience kind enough to listen and tell me they could relate. I am so grateful to have had a chance to stop and examine my past and share it with you. Thank you.
Here is the story that I told.