When I was in my first year of undergraduate studies, we had this paper called CRW. The course was roughly divided into a reading and a writing module, and the writing module was themed on food. The reading module might’ve also been themed on food, but I was a bit more focused on the writing module back then. For the writing module, we had this assignment to develop a creative essay on Food.
I wrote this article called “Memories of Food” for that project. I don’t remember putting in much effort for that article, I wrote it like I would a blog, put it through Grammarly before being done with it. I didn’t have much hope for the course, largely because the fatigue of online classes had hit us with full force. But that particular submission worked out pretty well, in the sense that more than a couple of my instructors liked what I wrote. One of them asked me to send it to the department’s magazine, which wasn’t more than a WordPress website.
I did send it to them, but after a lot of back and forth between the editor and me, I decided it wasn’t worth the effort anymore. Nevertheless, they put it up on the website, and a couple more people reached out to me. So, it must have been nice to read, though when I look back, there isn’t anything that stands out in the blog.
Back then, when I saw people liked what I wrote, I thought I would start a project called the Food project, where I would build on my actual assignment, and do something significant about my and people’s memories of food. I’ve ideated many projects in my head since then. I’ve started the music project, the school project, the people’s project & most recently the Nostalgia project. All of these projects were born on the margins of notebooks and Keep notes, and died somewhere around there, slowly fading into oblivion from everything happening around.
The Nostalgia Project was perhaps the most mature project, because all the earlier projects rested on the concept of people having a rather affectionate connection with their Past, that could be pleasantly triggered through conversations over tea or peanuts (Literally). The realisation that not everyone had my obsession with the past, or the stories of the past, came upon me a bit after I attempted to somehow get this project underway. But this inability to find nostalgia seekers isn’t really the reason I am writing this post. It is a personal reason, a personal acknowledgement of defeat. The acceptance of this reality happened on an uneasy afternoon, while walking to Masjid from work
It was a rather slow day at my office. So, my empty mind kept conjuring up iterations of how the day could unfold ahead. Unlike Doctor Strange, I was unable to find an iteration that would work out well. Unable to find any light at the end of the tunnel, I started thinking about what 23 years of life had come to, beyond the prescription medicines and the physio bills that had accumulated in my bag. Here I was, working a 9 – 5 with some semblance of work-life balance, completely unrelated to what I had majored in, far away from the conflicts zone where I wanted to deliver aid.
I try to find some peace in writing, because writing has always served me in two distinct ways. Writing was a way to answer a “How have you been?” I wish people asked the exact moment of my discomfort, or a way to take a trip down the memory lane, and hopefully get some people to start a conversation with me. Writing in itself is not really therapeutic. But what follows a published write-up is very important to me.
So on this walk to the Masjid, I thought about all the Projects that had never happened, and all the infant conversations that happened around the projects. I thought about why I had embarked on this mental journey to create something different, and the answer lay somewhere around my need to have some conversations worth my time. For instance, it doesn't help that the choice of conversations at the office are either about Marketing metrics with the boss, or about the hardships of finding this particular shade of lip gloss among the work acquaintances that occupied the remaining chairs at my work table.
But along with this also came the reality that my finances didn’t have the bandwidth to accommodate a pursuit of handpicked memories and stories from my circles. Additionally, my projected course of work to make the Nostalgia project successful had no prospect of adrenaline-filled workdays that I seem to thrive under. So with a heavy heart, in the afternoon I turned 23, I accepted that the creative projects I’ve been dreaming of for the last five years at the least, had no prospect of coming to life in the near future. In short, I quit on those projects that once kept me going and dreaming.
So, I decided that all the threads that existed on scraps of paper titled by various projects would rather feature as 1000-word write-ups here. Putting them out here gives a possibility to explore the thought process that led to the birth of such threads and the projects i mentioned before.
But because I’ve started running around with words rather aimlessly today, I thought I would take the hard step to understand my obsession with the past. There is this paragraph I wrote about the past once, which I shall quote here.
“It is in times like these that we understand the fragility of what we thought would be the life that would follow. The people slip away, the memories fade and timelines blur into blocks of ballparks.
There is nothing much we can do, perhaps take some time on the time that was, trying to hold on to the little bits that remain.
In the end, we are always alone, existing within space and time before we ourselves become parts of a faded memory”
There is nothing else that describes my obsession with the past than this.
When I look back, there are a few moments I treasure. There are a few people I hold close. I want them to remain till they dig a grave for me. There is a reason for this as well.
When I was younger, we didn’t go out much as a family. We always lived with the aspirations of a better tomorrow, where we would make up for all the vacations we didn’t take. Mom and Dad used to tell us that we could take as many vacations as we grew older, that now was the time to keep our heads down and study. So we spent our 3-month-long holidays staring at the same walls we did when we had school.
We as a family always lived in a made-up aversion to any thought of upward mobility. We used to convince ourselves that we were living the best life we could ever imagine. We rather looked down on people who strayed from the imaginary lines of righteous behaviour we drew ourselves for our conduct, for instance, people who took regular vacations, or people who had a life outside home, school and tuition.
I had determined a ballpark of this “promising future” sometime around when I graduated from school, because college was supposed to be “fun” like we were told to believe. So I did just that, I put my head down and studied, skipped football sessions, and interschool meets, and the last school tour to prepare for the boards. After all, we were supposed to live the life when college started. When that “future” finally came knocking, the government told us to stay indoors, and influencers told us to make dalgona coffee. By the time people started getting coffee from cafes again, some prescription medicines showed up at my bedside to ensure that I could stare at those walls just a little bit longer. Then came the bills, then came the bank balances. Then I hopped out of the optimism train and hopped on the 9-5 train. I gave up the first time then.
So, the few times we actually took a huge “risk” and had some fun, I hold close to heart. The few people we allowed ourselves to be in limited contact with, I held really close. The few times I was able to venture out of these huge make-belief boundaries we had set for ourselves, in terms of people, places & experiences, I cannot bear to lose from my archives.
But as I try to hold on to these people, places & experiences from the boundaries I now fear to cross, I can see them slipping away. As I try to remember triggers from back in the day, I can see time and incidents fade into ballparks. As I shut my eyes at night, to get ready to be at my office on time tomorrow, I can see myself alone, existing within the little space and time we allotted ourselves to, and us becoming a part of a faded memory by itself.
All these memory projects rose from moments of an acute absence of optimism. I cannot see myself getting out. Perhaps I can at least hold onto those times I had my foot in the door.
I turn 23 today, pessimistic about turning 24, nevertheless, as an employed graduate, with some family who care, and some people who were kind enough to pick up calls at odd hours.
Thank you for being there, you know who you are.
I’ve said it before, I am so happy that you were there, but I have nothing to offer but Jazakallah.
That’s the birthday speech no one asked for. Not a Happy Birthday. Just another day