Something Beginning With N

Something Beginning With N

And it is N for Nostalgia.

Walks to the milk booth at 5 am in the morning, reciting nursery rhymes

Being told that God blessed me each time there was a breeze and a leaf fell on my head

Asking me to smile, even through the tears

A brand new blue lace frock with satin ribbons and everything else matching in the same shade of blue

An inflatable crow, because I loved it

I wonder what happened to Lilly, my inflatable skinny doll.

I miss Tony. I am glad I have Peggy.

Waiting for 8 pm on Wednesdays for Binaca Geet Mala so I could listen to those songs

Fairy Tales that never ended from Gopu Mama every night

Watching the Marathi school through our window and dreaming

Receiving a pack of chocolates and having a good laugh when it read Rajangaon and not Ravalgaon. Who remembers these names?

Enjoying chuskis made of shaved ice called golas, outside school, thrilled that I had 10 p. to add the dollop of honey on top of the crushed ice, and then dying of guilt because you told me not to.

Longing for that toffee from the road side hawker driving the flies away from his newspaper covered slab which he broke in uneven pieces depending on the bidder.

Wishing I had metal braces in my mouth at age 7 just like my cousin Jayashree because I thought it looked so cool.

Praying that I would grow up soon and look after you as you looked after me

Samosas and jalebis from Shree Bajrang Sweet House at Diamond Point along with those little yellow pedhas.

That thick milk payasam that Padma unfailing made for every birthday since my 24th.

Vidur as a baby, toddler

And for you, me as a baby. Here’s a pic of us. The only one.

Vidya Sury and Devi Nostalgia

FMS Photo A Day August

Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.
Marcel Proust

How sad and bad and mad it was – but then, how it was sweet
Robert Browning

Every man’s memory is his private literature.
Aldous Huxley

We do not remember days; we remember moments.
Cesare Pavese

Memory… is the diary that we all carry about with us.
Oscar Wilde, “The Importance of Being Earnest”