I always knew my memory wasn’t what you could call sharp. Nay, mine has always been as blunt as they come. In all my life, I have never ever boasted about an infallible memory. At least, I don’t remember having boasted thus.

But even I am appalled as to how low it has gotten.

Last week, I met a ghost from my past (which is a neat way of saying I met a friend after a really long time, the ‘ghost’ being merely an element of the popular phrase). The spook in question was a fine chap by the name of Gregory. Greg and I have been pals since we were so high, having met in the 2nd standard.

Him having migrated to the culture capital of Maharashtra, Pune, quite a few years back, our communications had become strained of late, and it was with genuine pleasure that I started a wholesome conversation, directing the “How are you?”, “What have you been doing?”, and even the ever popular “What are your plans for the future?” type of questions like a seasoned pro.

But if you’ve been in situations like this, you would understand that conversations have the habit of drifting off into the past. If Asterix and Obelix had been separated for five years, and then met up for a chat, it is a safe bet that they would start reminiscing about the ‘good old days’. Normally, I would be okay with that, but somehow, I found to my dismay that I only had vague recollections of some of the stuff he was talking about. And it wasn’t routine or mundane events, forgetting which may be excused easily.

Granted all this happened waaay back, but that’s hardly an excuse to forget that we used to sharpen knives and go deep into ‘forbidden’ areas in search of our footballs, cutting out paths through the dense ‘jungle’ as we went along. Of course I remembered the incidents as he narrated them, remembering cutting up plants twice our height, while constantly monitoring for snakes and other accessories typical to any foliage of that intensity.

When he mused over how we built rotor based mini-boats out of matchboxes which we would sink in buckets, and how, in 3rd standard, we drew out a ‘plan’ for a ‘futuristic’ van, and had actually planned to send it over to Mitsubishi, it took time to remember any of it. Apparently, we had quite an adventurous childhood, and I was none the wiser.

Of course I didn’t betray this lack of clarity. As he went on relating one incident after another, I did my part of nodding my head, saying “uh, huh”, “Ah yes, those were the days!”, etc, and laughing at the appropriate gaps. And once even at an inappropriate one.

Imagine if Obelix starts talking about thumping Romans and hunting wild boars, and Asterix has only faint recollections of it, I’d bet that Asterix would resort to head-nodding, cue-based laughing, and similar improvisational tactics too. We know Obelix can be touchy.

Greg may not as be touchy, but the head-nodding tactic seemed chose juste here. Seeing little or no side effect to the approach, I continued the head nodding, impervious any strain to the neck. But when he related the helicopter wreck incident, I couldn’t stand it any longer.

We had both lived in Willington Island, somewhat near an airfield, flying helicopters and jet blasts being more common than the cold. We used to stare at the choppers go pretty close to the ground, and had developed a ‘what’s-the-big deal’ish attitude towards the flying contraption. One fine day, a helicopter crashed, and we came to know where the wreckage was going to be dumped. Greg and I decided to go take a look. Actually, Greg had decided to take more than a look. After school, Greg emptied his schoolbag, and we went to the wreckage, plan being to purloin the tire. Today, of course, we know that a helicopter’s tires are too big to be carried about in a 10 year old’s schoolbag. But unlike most of you, we learned it the hard way, the hard way being staring and gulping at the wreck, drinking in the enormity of the situation.

We didn’t get the tire. But it was an interesting experience. A VERY interesting experience. Which is why I am piqued at not having remembered it earlier. It could have been the cornerstone of a lot of my conversations. Face to face with a helicopter wreck, trying to salvage parts. Which conversation couldn’t use that piece?

Somebody: “I’m feeling bored. What can we do?”
Me: “Boy, I remember when I felt bored back when I was a kid. Believe it or not, I…”
...
Somebody else: “India lost again!! What a disaster!”
Me: “Perhaps. But not quite as disastrous as a helicopter crash, you would agree. I remember back when I was in…”
...
Yet somebody else: “Did you finish your project work?”
Me: “Man, these project works are the pits. No time to do anything else, like the good old days. I remember back when I was…”
...
A different somebody: “My brother had an accident last week.”
Me: “That’s too bad. Speaking of accidents, have you ever seen a crashed helicopter? Well…”
...
Another somebody: “Hey, tomorrow is my birthday.”
Me: “I remember a birthday I had when I was living in Willington Island. Well, technically, it wasn’t anyone’s birthday as such. Anyway…”
...
Instant conversation piece. Anytime, anyplace. And I missed out on that. I have to improve my memory. Got to get my act together… And I have a plan. I’ll take out a notebook, write down everything I think about, look back at the notebook later on, and see how much I can remember.

The trouble is… I have a vague recollection that I have already tried this method several times, and lost the notebooks… but then again, can I trust my recollection?

It is fun to recollect the good times you’ve had. And I dare say every one of us have spent time musing over the ‘good old times’ one time or the other. As we pass through life, the highlights get embedded into our brain, ready to be triggered at the appropriate moments, the respective neurons in charge of the triggering process awaiting the right time.

The highlights, however, do contain the good as WELL as the bad memories. And there are times embedded within each of our personal histories which make up memories you can hardly regard as ‘fond’. Moments of depression, sadness, grief, and embarrassment gets indiscriminately recorded in our brain as much as the good stuff. The brain apparently isn’t all as smart as one would have expected.

But on the other hand, such memories do have advantages of their own. When a group of friends gather around, at some point in time, some guy pitches forward with something like “You would not believe what happened to me last week. Blah blah blah. Yada yada yada. It was so embarrassing!!” This in turn, prompts the others to pitch in with their anecdotes, each topping the previous one. It goes to show how competitive the world has gotten. It doesn’t matter what the competition is. The title is irrelevant. People just want to win it, whatever it is. Even if the way to win it is relating anecdotes that would have rendered them laughing stocks of their respective neighbourhoods.

At times like these, I smile subtly and observe silently, much like Sherlock Holmes would have done, had he been watching a debate between Inspectors George Lestrade and Tobias Gregson over the origins of some tobacco ash found on the floor. In the matters of embarrassing situations, I yield to no man. Or woman, for that matter.

Once the amateurs exhaust their tales, I simply move in for the kill. There is no dearth of material. Embarrassment has been a dependable companion for far too long to ditch me when its needed. I just pick one anecdote at random and dish it out, usually sufficing to set the matter rest. Judgment on the contest is usually quick, silent, and unequivocal. Occasionally, the customary silence is broken by the words “Really?”, which, I understand, is their equivalent of a standing ovation.

You never know when or where the next embarrassing situation is going to come from. For example, I couldn’t have possibly expected an e.s. arising from Miss X. Miss X, who I met in college, is a sweet, gentle, and reserved lady, a genuinely interesting conversationalist, a rare find. But she tended to be moody at times. I, of course, had to learn that fact the hard way. The incident is several months old, but the memory is painfully fresh. The brain has recorded the ordeal to the tune of a drama theatre setting.

(Bright sunny afternoon. College Auditorium. Typical college activities going on. Energetic students displaying athletic skills on the table tennis board. Less energetic ones lounging on the chair watching TV. Sleepy spectators watching a chess game. Diligent students making chits to combat upcoming exams. Another group chatting by the canteen, waiting for their coffee. In short, the usual stuff.)

(Miss X sits in right side corner. Alone.)

(Enter Hamish, stage left. He scans the auditorium for familiar faces. Turns head 180 degrees before he spots Miss X. Delighted, he sits in a chair next to her, not unlike what he had done before, on other occasions.)

H: Hello there. Fancy meeting you here
X: Hmm…
H: Are you ok? You seem a bit… distracted?
X: (mumbles something inaudible)
H: Pardon?
X: (mumbles something audible, yet incomprehensible)

(silence)

H: Ummm… I… errr… I still didn’t get that.

X: (at top of her voice) Hamish! Will you JUST leave me alone!!!!


(Hamish jumps from chair, the height of the jump still in serious debate. Looks around at the startled crowd in the immediate vicinity. Most faces looking in a ‘what-have-you-been-doing-to-that-poor-woman’ manner.)

(Hamish looks closer at some of the spectators. Perhaps he misunderstood their look. Perhaps, they were just startled, as he was, that such a meek lady could produce such high volume. No. That was not the reason. It became increasingly apparent that the time he further spent in the audi would be inversely proportional to his health.)

(Exit Hamish, stage right)


A scene right out of a Ben Stiller movie, I think. The next time I met her, things were normal. As if nothing like that ever happened. Looking back, I think I can understand her frustration. I’ve had dark brooding days too. Although I’ve never vented out at someone else, I sure can understand how that can result. Perhaps the most troubling facet of the matter was the startling contrast. On her sunnier days, it’d be a hard job to find a more genial soul than Miss X. We remain the best of friends (until maybe she reads this article. Just kidding.) I don’t think she’s that moody nowadays, but I’m not planning to find out. Of course her name isn’t really X. I’m just using that to provide some protection. To me, that is. If it turns out that I told 20+ friends about this incident AND revealed her identity, moody or not, there is a significant risk of evoking Miss Hyde out of the timid Miss X once again, and probability of my surviving it is moot.