Last night I was driving, I made a mistake. It was a terrible mistake, the other car should have hit me directly, it would have been a brutal collision. I should have died, I did not. The other guy had brains, he used them.I am not kidding. It was totally my fault. My first thought was, thank god my daughter was not in the car with me. Second thought was feeling bad for the poor guy, he would have had to live the rest of his life knowing he killed somebody. Third thought, My husband is going to yell at me - he was driving ahead of me. Fourth thought - shoot, I left my home dirty... who is going to clean up after me? and what are they going to think about me?
What do you make up of a life as you pick its leftover pieces?
I was going out for dinner, in my hurry I left clothes on the washroom floor - later when someone picked them would they think I was a careless person? Is that true? Am I? My closet is not exactly as organized as I keep meaning to make it. What does that say about me? Oh and my blog! damn! does it really reflect who I am? I remembered my last post and thought! ouch! not good at all. hmm...
I suddenly understood what they mean by " I cannot be caught dead doing ......." you never really know when you could be caught dead. And all that is left behind is stuff.
Our things are personal, we know why they are important, no one else can find that meaning in them. The big things people find uses for, no one is going to throw away my jewelery, they might even keep my sarees, ki chalo beti shayad pehen le, but my paperwork, my books, my nick knacks , I don't suppose it is going to make a whole lot of sense to anyone. They will have no need for those small treasures I have saved forever. Not right away, but after a few years, someone is going to open that box full of my M.Sc notes and say, who is going to read them now? I ask myself that question all the time, but I don't throw them away, because trapped in those yellowing pages are dates that mean something to me, comments from friends that only I find funny, and equations that I look at now and go wow! I knew this ! wow!
Those fraying old photos from school, they each tell a story - a story that is not apparent right away, you had to have been there to know what had happened that day. After a few years when my daughter is older she will want to keep the photos, but will decide to pick a few, she will keep some and throw some out, and I think it is likely that she might throw the wrong ones out, think somethings mean what they did not. She will not know who I am looking at, because obviously I am not looking towards the camera. She might look at the people sitting next to me and think they were my best friends, she will not know that my best friend was sitting the farthest from me, coz that morning we had a tiff and sat apart :) . She might find that half arm jutting at the corner of one picture - shaky composition, she will not know that the only thing of importance in that picture was that arm, it is the arm of a friend who I have not seen in ages, I have no idea where she is and I have no real hope of ever finding her again, that the only reason I save that picture is because held forever on that bit of paper is an action I yelled at that day "Why? Why do you have to spoil every picture?" and have smiled at ever since. I am so glad you spoiled that picture :) She will not know any of that. For that matter she will not know any of that, no matter how long I live. There are things you cannot tell anyone, its like I said, you just had to have been there, to know what was happening that day. And, no it won't matter a whole lot, in the long run nothing really matters a whole lot, pictures least of all.In any case a lot of me went out with the stuff I did not keep, the pictures I threw away, the papers I tore up....
Our real stories are caught between those small insignificant tangible possessions that we leave behind, the junk, the stuff someone else will inevitably have to throw away one day and the imperceptible secrets in our hearts that will leave with us. That the world will not know the truth behind both of them, is in the end, not such a bad thought afterall.
In a life lived under the constant curious scrutiny of friends and family, it is somewhat gratifying to know that you will never know why I saved that half torn photograph, that crumpled bus ticket, and that small pebble which is like almost any other stone on the road? What is so special about them? Different people know different parts of that story, but I don't suppose they will ever get together.
Yes, the stuff we leave behind tells stories, but more often than not, either no one is listening, or, they hear the wrong ones. The irony of history, forever looking for the truth, forever missing it. And I find that thought, amusing.
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