Memoirs of the Roots

I have read many accounts of writers going back to their native lands after a long time. Some Canadian writer goes back to Africa and describes his feelings about the land of his predecessors; some Egyptian writer returns to her land after spending a long time in London. In all of these accounts, however, there have been changes highly geographical– from continent to continent, from country to country, and even from state to state. However, in my case, it was not even between cities.

            Five years ago, my family and I shifted from one house to another in the same city. Although I grew up in my present home, I could not let go of the memories of the previous house where I had spent a significant part of my childhood. Even though I had numerous friends there, I did not dare visit that old neighborhood of mine, as I thought that I would get overly nostalgic and would not be able to control my sentiments.

            However, after all these years, when I thought that I had finally stepped out of the hall of memories, I went to visit the old ragged place I once used to call home. I found my friends waiting for me in a field nearby where I used to play cricket and soccer all day long duing summer and badminton during the winter months. While I rushed forward to embrace them, a scene from my distant childhood flashed momentarily in my mind. Immediately, I knew that my visit to the old neighborhood had been a wrong decision – I had yet not completely thrown out the memories.

            I went near the 4 buildings that we used to call “our territory” as kids. The buildings were not worn out as I had expected. The place was just the same as it had been five years ago. No detail had been replaced except the beautification of the small garden and maybe a re-painting of the old walls which would seemed to reflect my morose smiles. I walked past the long corridors, the empty halls, the rusty basketball court; and they seemed to call me, to howl at me for having abandoned them, to invite me back to its heart where I had left my soul. I’ll admit, a drop or two of salt-water might have escaped my eyes…

            I spent the entire day there in the realms of my kingdom of memories. Random scenes from my eight years of stay there kept flashing in my eyes every now and then, and it occurred to me that the movie-makers did not go overboard with the idea of flash-backs. Even though I have spent my adolescent years in my present home, I somehow feel that I had abandoned a good part of my life there – my childhood. True, I would have aged even if I remained there forever; but I like to believe that I would always enjoy the delicate times I spent there laughing and fighting with my friends. Only if I knew how much I would miss my old home and neighborhood, I would have savored every minute that I had spent there as a child.

I learned a fact that day: how much we change, our roots call us back.