What a pleasure memories don’t die | Shaadaab S. Bakht - GulfToday

What a pleasure memories don’t die

Shaadaab S. Bakht


Shaadaab S. Bakht, who worked for famous Indian dailies The Telegraph, The Pioneer, The Sentinel and wrote political commentaries for Tehelka.com, is Gulf Today’s Executive Editor.


Photo has been used for illustrative purposes.

The quantum of pleasure in his life is declining fast. At times he feels bliss is about to stop breathing. The gentleman, thoroughly bored, decided one morning to unmask himself and stay at home.

He then dived into some letters, which he has been carrying with him for more than 20 years.

He landed on one of them, written to him 23 years ago. He read it once, twice, thrice, four times. He couldn’t have enough of the long letter. It was long, but like the Russian novelists engrossing and intense. Its innocent tone was like a child’s, but not childish. It was loaded and passionate but not risque. The letter was an unfailing prescription for a watertight relationship and a poetic waddle. The maniacal rereading of the letter brought back deep and wonderful memories. He said they left him in an almost wild stuporous state and absolutely refreshed for months to come. He said that’s the reason he always treasured memories. They kept him going. Every time he felt low he recalled the lines in the letter, he said.  

She says she talks to him…cleans the grave, waters the flowers and occasionally lights a candle or two

Memories indeed keep lives moving. I know a lady, who visits her husband’s grave on the 21st of each month, because he left the mortal world on a 21st. She is 48 and has been visiting him for the last six years. She returns home and writes about her feelings in a diary. She says she talks to him, informs him about what is happening in her life. She cleans the grave, waters the flowers and occasionally lights a candle or two.   

She says her visits take her down memory lane and leave her reinvigorated.

Memories can really be uplifting. In search of it, a friend flew for an hour and a half to reach a particular city in India. He checked into a hotel. Next morning he hired a car to go to a coffee shop on a hilltop. When at the café he took pictures, walked around and then had the same coffee he had easily a decade ago. He said he sat there for more than two hours.

He said his friend had invited him there for coffee years ago. They had spent nearly four hours. The place had gradually turned into a regular rendezvous. It was normal for them to drink from each other’s cup and share cookies and philosophical lines from well-known writers. They were barrelling through their moments of togetherness like a whirlwind till one day destiny poached the very soul of their dream: coupling. Their cups turned empty as the froth was left to stare at the rims.

But my friend looked happy at the end of the narration.

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