The Book Of Memories.

I pulled the last box out of the rusty mover’s truck and turned around to make my way upstairs. The stairs that led me to my new apartment were, to sugar-coat it, “dingy.” It was a Victorian-style building that was clearly a hundred years old. It was well lived in, by many old officials of the British army. Later, due to a shortage of space in the city, these apartments were rented out as smaller spaces for much cheaper prices. Anyway, I had no right to complain. I mean I was getting all this for peanuts. Sure it’s not luxurious but it fits my budget and has all the necessities. I reached upstairs to find the movers’ driver standing outside with the door ajar. He helped me stack the last box on top of the rest and stood with his hands on his hips.

Are we supposed to tip? I mean, what the hell’s service tax for? He huffed and so I placed a couple of dollars on his palm that he had very demandingly brought out. He huffed again, disappointed, turned around and left, banging the door behind him. The sound echoed throughout the apartment and made me jump. The rest of the tenants in this building were mostly retired army and naval officers, who would definitely complain about that bang.

I surveyed the whole place, which took less than a minute due to it's not so massive size. There were two bedrooms, one shared loo, a tiny kitchen ,that could fit only one person at-a-time, and the living area, that, if the door was left open could be seen completely from outside. I had gotten the basic furniture already laid out. I had converted the second bedroom into a study with my bookshelf and desk where I put my typewriter.

It was so quiet that I could hear myself breath. I decided to unpack some of my stuff to avoid falling into a trance within the eerie silence. I grabbed a couple of boxes that were marked “Books” and took them to the study. I pulled out my handy scissors to cut open the boxes. I finished stacking all my comics, Dan Brown’s, Cecilia Ahern’s and Robin Cook’s just as they do at the public library back home.

I was moving the boxes marked “clothes” when I found this one box with my name on it. It wasn’t big or heavy. I picked it up and sat on the sofa, keeping it on my lap. I opened it and found a treasure of knick-knacks from my life so far. Little morsels of memory that I had collected over the years.

It had letters from my teachers since grade school, the first poem that I wrote, the little certificates and prizes I won in debates, painting competitions etc.

These little things that didn’t matter so much back in the day had now became my refuge to tranquility, and took me back to my past, to where I used to ‘belong’. And as soon as I thought my journey through memory lane was over, in the corner of the box I found a little diary. On the top, it said “THE BOOK OF MEMORIES.

Opening the first page I realized my joy ride had just begun. I vividly remember maintaining this diary. I remember noting down things in here that I felt I should remember when I grew up. The idea behind it was that when I was little I used to love hearing stories from my parent’s past, but I always felt that I won’t be able to remember my childhood memories for my children. So I wrote it all down and saved it till today.

This book had my embarrassing secrets and silly pictures from tomboy days. It had stories that I felt I wouldn’t, one day, feel too embarrassed to tell. It had photos from my school dance, graduation party, college dorm parties and whatnot! But most importantly it had memories, memories that I want to remember forever.

Within the blink of an eye, I had completed my high school and then college. It seemed like just yesterday my mom left me at my dorm room with my awkward roommate. I was joyous about the freedom but right now, I wouldn’t mind getting grounded, to sit in my room and listen to my siblings create a ruckus and my mom shouting at them from downstairs. To have my mom stare at me and my brother, in disgust, having a burping competition (I always won).

After college I moved back to my home, only to realize that I had grown up. I applied for jobs, secretly hoping to get rejected and stay under my parent’s roof for a little longer.

I wiped a tear and picked up the book and took it with me to the study. This book got the grandest space in the old wooden bookshelf. It sat there for me to open now and then, and see how far I’d come. It sat there to stay with me forever.