Return of the boy shaped Memory.

My grandma was narrating me a story of the times when I still haven’t learnt to bottle up my memories for future cherishment and retrospection.

I didn’t have any idea what she was talking about. It was as good as listening to the story of some everyday brat visiting his grand ma’s place and plundering everything to recommence with his plan of world domination. She was narrating the incident as if it has happened moments earlier in the other room.

It is then I realized that I am not the sole proprietor of my memoirs. The memory that I perpetuate is a mere morsel of the treasure that lies deep within the catacombs of the known and strange faces. Memory is like that glue in disguise that binds us altogether, for better or for worse. Our life gets fragmented and makes a perfect fit in somebody else’s jigsaw puzzle. Like sand, when it flows, seldom has it accumulated into a molehill, but has osmosed into every nook and corner of whatever came in its way.

Maybe its out there, disposed as a harmless footnote in somebody's chronicle. We never bid each other adieu when it slipped away from my pocket..... And maybe in some sardonic way, it’ll come back to me, my prodigal son.