The Tree of Nostalgia

(Co-author: Ishita Singh)

– Are you religious? (He asked me)
– Not really.

In one of the corners of my room was a small table on which were kept little idols of Gods, on a glittery red square-shaped cloth with golden laces. I guess he was amused by it.

– It is more of a habit instilled in me since childhood, to pray occasionally. (I continued) These idols of familiar faces carry with them memories of the daily prayers my Mother has been performing since the beginning of time.

I am not sure why, at this particular moment, I am reminded of this conversation that I had with a long lost friend. My only guess is because this conversation had in it a tinge of nostalgia. Of childhood. Of growing up. Of friends made and forgotten.

—

It was 01:00 in the night when I was being escorted by my two friends to the hostel at the far end of the campus. The moon was showering its silver rays of light upon the piece of earth around me when I spotted the tree.

– I want to climb that tree. (I declared to them, drunk.)
– Are you aware of the fact that our college administration expects girls to be back in their hostel rooms by 01:30?
– I know. Just once. Please. I will be as quick as a fox.
– Foxes do not climb trees.
– How do you even know this..? Okay, I will be as quick as a sparrow.

When we went near the tree, I realized that there was a bench under the same. I had been crossing that path on a daily basis, but the bench somehow had managed to hide in plain sight. It was a revelation. I cancelled my plan of climbing the tree.

– The sparrow wants to sit for a while.
– Okay Ma’am (I vaguely remember both of them saying this, together, sarcastically). But won’t we be late?
– Don’t be rude. You guys do not have any time limit. Just sit here.

So we sat. The stars shone upon us and one of my friends took out his portable music player.

– Which song are you going to play?
– I don’t know. Paradise, maybe.
– Nadaan Parindey. Can you play it, please? I want to sing along.
– What? No. It’s getting late. Let’s leave.

And I started singing. I started singing under the stars with the cold wind caressing my hair. I started singing because I was free, fearless, safe. Absolute freedom in the company of my friends. It was only when I abruptly stopped singing that I realized they too had been humming along. Friends – they do know how to be with you. Like your siblings. Your brother.

—

If you were to ask which year it was, I would say 1993 when I first realized I loved my brother. He was still ten or eleven months old and I was five, when he, with his big round eyes, had looked at me and, with his lips wet with saliva, had chuckled revealing his toothless gums. He was lying flat on the bed on a rubber mat, throwing his little arms and legs in the air and I was making faces at him. He loved it and I loved him. I felt proud of being the sister to this cute little toy of a creature.

Another memory I have of him originates from a family photograph that we clicked when we were on a trip to Kashmir. It was a freezing sunny day when the whole of my extended family gathered on a green field outside our cottage and smiled. If you look at the photograph, you will find me second from the left kneeling down with shades on my eyes and a wide smile on my face, and my brother next to me, smirking at the camera. After we had clicked the photograph, he had come up to me and

– This photograph is a special one.
– Why? It’s just another family photograph.
– No. It isn’t. I am not sure if it’s the composition of the frame, the playful amalgamation of sun-rays and frozen air or the pure joy reflected in everyone’s faces. But remember, ten years down the lane you will still remember this one.

I did. On this day, sitting by the side of the sea along the beautiful stretch of a road called Marine Drive, I remembered that photograph. I do not know if it was the memory of the photograph that reminded me of him or the other way, but the fact remains that I am reminded of my brother, the idols and the tree that shone like a diamond.

—

It was past 1:30 and therefore I was sneaked into the boys’ hostel by the same friends who were supposed to drop me off. I was ushered into one of their rooms and was asked to latch the door from inside and not to open except when there was an earthquake, an alien attack or a call from any one of them. I was alone in the room, drunk, but in senses. So I looked around the room washed in a dim yellow light. There were clothes hanging behind the door, books scattered on the bed and a Beatles poster on the wall. There was an aroma of comfort, of warmth, of belonging that only friendship can bring. I had never been in that room but I fell asleep instantly. This was an indication of how safe I felt I was.

—

Today. Marine Drive, Mumbai.

– Why are you so sad? What happened?

I turn around and find a Sari-clad Eunuch looking at me with concern.

– I am not sad. (I reply, smiling.)
– You are sitting here alone, lost in your thoughts. Your appearance reeks of sadness.
– I am at peace. I was thinking of the past.
– Past?
– Yes. And I am happy thinking of all the wonderful people I have met and all the beautiful moments I have lived.
– I am relieved.

She goes away and I am touched by her concern. What baffles me is why solitude is always associated with melancholy, with sadness while a group of people, a source of collective happiness. I see a bunch of school kids about 100 meters away from me and I cannot make a judgment of their levels of happiness. I also see a man in his early forties walking briskly in his shorts – I cannot judge him too because that would be wrong. I love my own company and the company of my memories, and even if I was taken as a symbol of sadness because I was sitting alone, facing the sea, lost in my thoughts, I do not mind going back to the fond lane of experiences imprinted so clearly on my brain.

Watching the sea, I can still recall how the tree appeared that night. Let me sketch it for you. Here, look –

Beautiful, isn’t it? Not the sketch but the Tree.