That translucent alabaster of our memories
Marcel Proust "The Captive," Remembrance of Things Past(1929).
Chapter 2
I want to read Proust. I have to read Proust.
(These passages are episodes from MY life and not excerpts of the book with the same name as the title of my post )
Marcel Proust "The Captive," Remembrance of Things Past(1929).
Memory
Chapter 1
Grandma's Garden
After a very long time I stumbled upon the long (but not definitely lost) memory of my grandma's garden (my papa's aunt) sprinkled with tiny yellow flowers (they were my favourite), the haystacks that were left by the side of the pond. The fields when they were green(and yellow), my best summer days spent, till date. The memories are not lost but the very things which formed my memories, have travelled far beyond the time and space they were meant to traverse. There are no yellow flowers now. When I look back, I think they were not even flowers, I mean not planted or anything, just wild growth that somehow found its way to be a part of the garden that was never meant for it. I can find no haystack (there needs to be hay first) and no green field (because there's no more farming).
Chapter 2
Cousins' Quarter
Courtesy
I remember the early morning stroll my cousins and I used to take only so that we can witness the rising sun and to blow the drops off the dewy grasses. The continuation of the day dreams with a nap on that very dewy fields. The unending conversations about everything mundane with a toothbrush in our hands. I remember running around the vast playground of the quarters where my cousins used to stay. The old, uninhabited ghostly quarters whose only constant visitors were the three of us (F, D and I) trying to find out hidden treasures/leftover troves of some kind. We practically broke in. Locks and latches were of no hindrance at all.
I remember the early morning stroll my cousins and I used to take only so that we can witness the rising sun and to blow the drops off the dewy grasses. The continuation of the day dreams with a nap on that very dewy fields. The unending conversations about everything mundane with a toothbrush in our hands. I remember running around the vast playground of the quarters where my cousins used to stay. The old, uninhabited ghostly quarters whose only constant visitors were the three of us (F, D and I) trying to find out hidden treasures/leftover troves of some kind. We practically broke in. Locks and latches were of no hindrance at all.
They left this place long, long way back. Those days have vanished, gone, evaporated to dimness even in my memories so much so that I usually never recall them. Sometimes it is hard to believe that all of these (and many more fantabulous incidents) did happen. These memories are neither fictitious nor coloured. They were so much better than fiction.
I want to read Proust. I have to read Proust.
(These passages are episodes from MY life and not excerpts of the book with the same name as the title of my post )
Summer reading list:
1. When Dreams Travel - Githa Hariharan
2. The Motorcycle Diaries - Ernesto Guevara
3. Tales from 1001 Arabian Nights - Richard Burton
P.S:
All my friends here, I would be happy if you can suggest me some films to watch- your favourites or films which you think is something one should not miss.
Have a fabulous week ahead.
