Take 1

I have nearly zero memories of my grandmothers. My father's mother had throat cancer. Come to think of it, cancer runs in the female side of his family. I vaguely remember the house I was born in. It was about a few months after that we moved, out of the joint family, into the house we have now. I can barely recollect her face. She was frail is all that I remember. I don't remember when she died, though I do remember the hospital where she died. I did not know her much and it was the same the other way round. We were strangers mostly to each other. What I remember her most for is the huge gash I had on my feet, acquired due to an unintended contact with a shard of glass while playing, in one of the later years after her death, during one of the memorial services. It was discovered by my sister who almost shrieked in horror seeing the gaping hole. That is really my only memory of her.

I do remember my mother's mother a bit better. I do remember her face. And also that she was bed-ridden for a very long time. That side of the family was, at best, rancorous without alcohol involved. With the involvement of alcohol, they were a hoot. Blood is thicker than water and it is amenable to beat up even more what is thickest, which they always did when they got together. If this was meant to be family, the worst of enemies could be the best of your friends. She did suffer a lot, with warts, bed sores and the lot. The eldest took care of her and when she died, he drove through the night to get her to the place they all grew up. They said it had to be an ambulance that should do it, but, every man, howsoever evil he may be, has his single solitary redeeming factor. His was that he took care of her and would not have any of it to be driven on her last journey in an stranger's vehicle.

I still remember where they buried her. We used to play around there. It was not odd. We never knew each other. It was more a case of looking at that mound and wondering what it must be like to be under all that? Last year, we drove down there again. Large parts of the place had changed. I did not, though, notice the mound. It was dark and I was driving the car. I have very little connection with the place because I chose things to be that way. I could choose otherwise and dig up old bones, threads and faces I barely remember, but I chose not to. Thankfully, I do not have do that with my grandfathers. My only memory of their faces are from pictures. As you can imagine, my personal history does not stretch much beyond a generation before me. Not that it makes a reasonably significant difference, but you know, it is important to note down these things.

Not that it all matters much. In the past weeks I have come across photographs from times that I have chosen not to remember much from. It is an extreme mix, you know. Of reactions. It starts with a wild grasp at familiarity, followed by a momentary realization of 'oh crap' and then the revulsion follows. Not that there is much wrong with the pictures. Not that I am actually there in the pictures; I am not. Backpedalling, reverse-freewheeling, pedal-to-the-middle, tires squealing mad dash into the future. In history's mind, you are nothing but a vast sheet of glass broken and sharded across generations, places and memories. There are bits of you all over the place, but the whole of you is nowhere.