The Pursuit to be Remembered

Or, The Questionable Purpose of Remembering

Someone asked, ‘Do you want to be remembered?’ I smiled at that text. I was already surprised to find someone who openly talks in terms of love and loneliness and also, likes psychoanalysing people. His question took me back to the time I told my teacher that I couldn’t bear the idea of being forgotten by him. I think I meant to tell him that he made a difference in my life and I want him to know that. I do this if I can, let people know what they mean to me (might seem creepy and unnecessary). Yet for reasons I don't quite understand, I was driven crazy by the thought that I might not matter to people who matter to me. Those days! My smile got wider as I typed, ‘No, not anymore.’ I was glad that he didn’t ask, ‘What changed?’ I don’t have an answer to that. 

If I had a tagline it’d be, I drink coffee (not anymore, damn you, lockdown!) and I remember things.  I remember events from my life believing they were huge for others. For example, the time my brother told our parents that he wanted to be a film director is a significant memory. I initiated the dialogue at home. It’s one of the few things my brother confided in me and I decided to do something about it. I asked my parents, ‘What if I wanted to be an actor?’ They weren’t expecting this, I could see it on their faces. They went on to explain what we might need to explore in order for my acting dream to come true. By then, my brother and I were sharing mischievous smiles leaving our parents confused.  Finally he said, she doesn’t want to be an actor, I want to be a director.

When I described this incident at home, no one was willing to accept that it happened. I was shocked. My brother went to the extent of saying, sometimes we make up scenarios in our head that seem real. Thankfully, by then, I was no longer questioning my sanity to fall for it. A similar thing happened when I spoke to a couple of friends. They couldn’t recall the incidents that I was narrating. It led me to wonder, why do I remember these things? It's not historically relevant as a pandemic afterall!

A friend once said, 'If everything is resolved and it keeps coming back then it’s asking you to write about it.' She gave purpose to my memories when I couldn't find any. I often write stories, forget about them because I don't think they are worth reading. I remember writing them, I remember the memory they are based on as well as the state of mind I was in while I wrote them. Now when I return to them I am surprised by the way they are framed. At that point, I was perhaps making up lies to make the stories seem impersonal. Now they are impersonal.

I begin editing these stories, especially the ‘wanna-be specific, so will write Americano instead of coffee which is completely irrelevant to the story’ bits. Yet, it boggles my head. These incidents were life changing, how can people not remember? The only satisfying answer was, I validated myself in these moments. It was about my brother's future yet it was huge for me because I was the bridge. This is how I chose to remember myself thinking people did too. Ah, the heartbreak! I wanted to mean something to people 'in ways I consider significant'. 

I remember people and places with their tiny details. I know I have forgotten many things yet I believe someday they'll return to me should I need them. Memory is funny that way. I remember many events simply because I narrated them in my head while they were happening. I’ll never know what actually happened. Can anybody? All I know is I have to let the voids be instead of imposing my perception on them. I considered my recollections to be the only stories for a long time and was oddly relieved to know they weren't. I need to stop creating a story for every void, I need to stop filling it obsessively to make sense. Someday these spaces will be filled, hopefully, when I learn the art of letting multiple voices thrive in my story, keep them alive. Is this not the reason people remember what they remember, to tell stories of who they thought they were? Or maybe, of the ones who mattered? 

As far as trying to be remembered is concerned, it seems like a futile pursuit now. Maybe I am a person they remember. Maybe I am a story they wish to forget. Maybe someone somewhere is writing a story or a poem about me, maybe I'll get to know about it, maybe I won't. Who am I to decide what I mean to anybody? I guess, I am okay being nothing in my head for the moment (or not knowing if I mean something to others or if they remember me, tbh) even though I agree with Juror #9 when he says it's a very sad thing to be nothing. It was rather heartbreaking to accept that not everyone has spent years writing people and feelings the way I did, so I have to actually read their actions to know what I mean to them, instead of the words they may or may not produce. It's a tedious job.


Ps. If you want to find ways to be remembered, just look at the overwhelming response to Irrfan Khan's demise. I haven't seen a collective loss that feels so personal. It feels like something so huge has happened that its impact is slow so that we can process it, little by little. How am I reacting to it? By reading Jhumpa Lahiri's Namesake, so that I can watch the adaptation.