Words.

The triggers of memory come in various forms, their sources are as varied as the species of animals that God has created for this Earth that we all live in. Today, I remembered Grandfather. And what was that trigger that got me thinking about him? Well, I must say first that, Grandfather is often on my mind, but today it was different, it was the trigger itself that led me on a different path of memory to remember Grandfather, different from the usual that I had often thought of him. The trigger was Proust. When Proust’s narrator began talking his grandmother, who had died of a stroke…

One event that had played itself over and over again in my head took place many, many years ago, I remember, when I was still a child of about nine or ten years, still unsure of the ways of the world, my tongue still loose and rash, I was unable then to control it properly at all. I remember, that then, the ceiling in my Grandfather’s house leaked, or was it that the neighbours upstairs were hanging wet clothing and that they were dripping onto our laundry instead? Whatever it was, there was water. Grandfather went upstairs to talk to that neighbour, telling her about what was happening down at our side. I went upstairs with him. He had gone into the flat, while I stayed outside, talking to the daughter of that family, then, who was also about the same age as me. We stayed there for quite a while, and I didn’t know exactly what I was talking about. Perhaps it was all just childish talk. Then, Grandfather came out, and there was some more discussion at the door, and somehow, I do not know how, for these things happen from time to time without our knowledge, without us fully knowing why they came out the way they did, without intention, without ill-will, but I said out that Grandfather had spewn profanities at the neighbour upstairs before coming up to the flat. The lady then, glared at Grandfather, and closed the door. Grandfather was very upset with me that day, and he kept asking me to tell him, what did he say exactly. I refused. I had realized that I had created an improbable fiction that did not exist or take place at all, and there were serious consequences in terms of his pride, that in front of a stranger, he was let down by his very own grandson, a sort of betrayal had taken occured, and there and then he was trying to resolve it, trying to make sense out of it, trying to work it out with his stubborn grandson who had not known any better than to shut up. My pride, all ten years of it, was at stake as well, and as selfish as a child could have been, as though I were hoarding a precious toy that I did not want taken away from me, I refused to give in, I did not budge at all, but I held my silence, not wanting to say anything at all. Perhaps then, somehow, I also knew that saying anything at all would not do me any good, since I had already said something that was not true, this time, then, in front of Grandfather, just the two of us, what I would say would thus be the truth, and that then there would be no way out for me but to have my pride cast aside so that Grandfather’s pride could be re-instated. I still kept my silence, and then, days passed, the whole incident was swept under the carpet.

I still remember that incident, even though it took place nearly fifteen years ago. But I think that is the way the memory works, a key incident that engraves itself so vividly on the slate of our consciousness, becoming a permanent mark eternally to be located within the confines of our mind, the timelessness of the human mind preventing it from being corroded away into nothingness. Grandfather has passed away for nearly three years now. I know he still exists within me, and that’s the way it will remain for the rest of my days, until the day I even become as old as he was before he died, and how I will remember him will forever remain the same, unchanged and untouched by time. So will these memories, triggered off by these very markers that lie strewn all over our paths in life.