There are days when all I want to do is immerse myself in memories. Everything about such days triggers off a remembrance, right from the morning sun rising slowly up the horizon, to the baby pigeon and his mom sleeping peacefully in a box-bed in my balcony. There was a time when Mom and I snuggled up like that on winter mornings in Delhi, letting the house-cats raise a pandemonium and the vegetable-sellers shout their hearts out before venturing to really get started with the day.
Today is one such day, when memories come visiting unannounced and create such a realistic impression of themselves that I am almost fooled. They seem so real, quite like they are happening again – the familiar warmth of my mug of coffee, the morning tip-tap of my keyboard, the sun quietly lighting up the room, and the prospect of a January stretching lazily ahead, complete with fresh oranges, roasted groundnuts and a sun-baked terrace bed.
It doesn’t do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, said Dumbledore. Only these aren’t dreams; they are figments of my life. And recounting them from time to time is my defence against the forces of nature and time – the ones that do their best to eat away and fade whatever we have left of life.
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