My Garden of Memories

By Sunandana Choudhury

As I drove down the winding, familiar road to the garden of nostalgia, today it felt different. 

I was hoping to come eye to eye with the rocks of remembrance that I always stumble upon, the potholes reeking of the stench of memories that I avoided feverishly and the lush green grasses that grew denser with my every visit.

I took that as a comfortable sign that the grasses would soon outgrow the potholes and hide the rocks in them. And soon there would only remain the innocent greenery swaying gently in the wind, ever-so-ready to usher me in.

Once upon a time the rocks were the same ones that I loved to play with. Building one thing after the other. I suppose I only grew too ambitious. Built a home out of them. Forgot that they were only rocks. Forgot that I was only playing. They grew sharper. Their stalagmitic curves giving them and my life an edge. Holding onto them became painful and leaving them to let be seemed impossible. Impossible did I say ? Yes, it seemed so. As do most things bereft of the pain they cause one. However, I settled to leave them in the garden but conveniently never left. How could I? After all, the rocks were my home. And after all, the catharsis offered by pain is incredibly niche and personal.  And thus the saga continued. My returns to the garden at the stroke of dusk, heralded by the familiar sights of rocks scattered everywhere and dodging the potholes one apprehensive jump at a time.

Until.

Until today.

Today is Saturday and only I know why it's today. The drive to the garden was eerily beautiful. The January wind caressed my face almost humorously and somewhere underneath my navy-blue hoodie, I felt a chill run up my spine that broke the barrier of soothing comfort . Frighteningly enough, it felt like my silver Wagon R was being fueled by its sheer desire to make me reach somewhere. Somewhere fast. Very fast. I looked up. The indigo sky streaked with rich pigments of pink and orange hues showed me a dazzling ivory moon. Looking down at me it seemed to smirk. "Go on"- it teased, "It's today". "What is?" I shot back. "What is?". 

My stubborn repetition with a pinch of anxiety was met with an equal stubborn silence and I too decided to be mule-like and not ask again.

How I wish I did.

 I was crossing the bridge that made me reach the garden, a usually peaceful ride.

 I stuck my head out of the polished glass windows when all of a sudden I saw him.

The caretaker of the garden had returned.

The realization took the form of a slow-paced indie film grappling the focused audience at the climax. Except I am almost entirely sure that their keen eyes did not warp into pupils dilated in subdued horror.

“How could he be here? He was not supposed to be here. He was not here for so many days. Him not being here was why I could visit the garden. If he knew I came, he would not let me enter the garden. My garden. My garden that I had grown to love and cherish. It was my place to be. “My frenzied thoughts were cooking up a storm for every inch of my body to feel its disastrous after-effects.

Our eyes met for a fleeting glance. It seemed like eons had passed in what was probably half a second. And there it was. 

He was gone.

The outpouring of hostility , hatred , rage and perhaps even a glimmer of sadness was what I wanted. Instead getting met with an ice-cold glance of nonchalance threw me off my guard badly. His stretched eyes like little boats floating in an inky river at dusk always seemed to disappear inside that out-stretched smile of his, as he effortlessly used to guide me around. His eyes that always searched something in me. Today I found the search to be over. I carefully looked back.

My caretaker had a new visitor.

I almost laughed. And then tried to cry. Never was the type to cry in grief or shock. Tears accompany me in rage and overwhelming happiness. I was filled with a new sense of dread. I had almost reached the garden. A nasty after-taste started filling my mouth, leaving my throat parched , eager for even a drop of comfort. 

I opened my door and stepped out.

The garden was gone. What lay in front of me was a depressing stretch of land devoid of any soul. The crinkled grass once boasting of meadow-like freshness and the rocks that resembled those from around a garbage rubble made me choke up in nostalgia lost to time and circumstances.

The starchy sand blew into my eyes in an effort to probably clear it out for the better. 

The caretaker had a new visitor. He needed the garden. So he took it back. Wordlessly.

But,

It was my garden? Was it not?

By Sunandana Choudhury