I've been reading lot of Murakami lately, especially with these holidays we had this week. Lost many times in a maze of memories, Murakami does that to you, took me to that window sill of our house in Kashmir; where grandfather's Philips radio played Sufiyana Mousikee by G M Saaznawaz. On dull, morose winter days, through this window a fading light, straight out of a Guru Dutt effect, would fall into our living room. Abba would be lost in the reverie, many times eyes enclosed. The effect of Ustaad Saaznawaz's santoor and voice had strange tranquility about it. The lines, the notes swirled in our living room.
There is so little, so much to remember of anyone. A conversation, an anecdote, a window sill, a radio. Memories are like diaries that we carry always with us. Taking a note, every now and then. Going back to the journal, as I did today, I opened that page I wrote many moons ago, on those winter days of early 90s. The warmth of my Grandfather and the oblivion of a ugly world outside kept me in stood steed. When did it all change, while Jhelum still winded past. I would not know. Memories are such. The good ones and the bad ones.
People leave strange memories behind when they go says Murakami. I would give anything to be back in that moment. Of affection, of large joint family, of a long long mirthful winter break and Abba's Radio Kashmir.
I sometimes fail to add up the gains of living away from home. A pittance gained, a life lost.