Looking back at days past is man's way of coping with a variety of things. It is our way of reminiscing about happy moments of the past, memorable incidents and accidents that shaped us to be what we are today, mistakes we made and learned from, and events we cherish and miss.
Often when a day is stressful, the mind is exhausted, or the heat is unbearable like it is today, my brain meanders off into my past and finds solace and refuge in my childhood. Recalling some tiny, insignificant detail from my formative years reminds me that I was lucky to have had a childhood that I could fondly look back upon, and also assures me that I am still some ways away from suffering from Alzheimer's.
Today, out of the blue, I suddenly remembered how much I loved reading fiction as a kid. Well, I sort of lied there. The memory didn't pop out of the blue. I was in the library and my kids were reading. On a whim, I picked up a book and joined them. The book I picked - Murder On The Orient Express by Agatha Christie, one of the greatest storytellers to have ever graced this earth - spurred the memory, supplemented by the extreme heat of this summer day. Another grueling hot day like this flashed through my mind.
It was a hot June day in the summer of 1987 that I went back to. I was moving to 6th grade in the ensuing Fall. Now that I was bigger, I had graduated from Enid Blyton and abridged classics to more mature content, and my current favorite was mysteries. I had started dreaming of growing up to become Sherlock Holmes or Hercule Poirot - although I was leaning more towards Poirot, because like him, I would be a foreigner living in England, solving complex crimes around the globe, sometimes on the behest of aristocrats and royalty. Apart from this, I was also more attracted to Poirot's idiosyncrasies than to Sherlock's aggression and eccentricities.
I can clearly see the younger me lying on the bed, mid-afternoon, both feet dangling out between the vertical iron bars of the bedroom window of our second floor rented apartment. Only we called it first floor, the floor below being the ground floor. The rickety ceiling fan semi-successfully tried to cool my body, but the pleasant summer breeze outside definitely did wonders for my lower extremities. I was reading the same book - Murder On The Orient Express. I was completely lost in the intricacies of the world designed by Christie, where the crime was baffling, the characters involved both amusing and misleading, and the clues mind-boggling.
Reading a Hercule Poirot novel is an experience in itself. Page after page, I would puzzle about the goings-on, completely clueless about where the unfolding events were leading to. I would feel just like the characters in the book tagging along with Poirot assisting him in his quest for answers, hapless and helpless and completely unable to contribute. And like a magician, Poirot would assimilate everything thrown at him, piece clues and events together, and with a flourish, present a comprehensive and plausible explanation in the end that would blow my mind. The conclusion to a Poirot novel was like an addiction that I would crave for, and when it arrived, I would put the book away and lie there on my pillow, satiated, mesmerized, and wanting more.
Today, life is messier, more complicated, and way more demanding than that summer day of 1987. There are appointments to be kept, deadlines to be met, jobs to be completed, and mores to be observed. I cannot ask for a lazy afternoon devoid of any errands and chores where I would lie on my bed and read a book. But today, the few hours I stole from life to read Dame Agatha Christie's masterclass were as satisfying and joyful as that summer day three decades ago.
Often when a day is stressful, the mind is exhausted, or the heat is unbearable like it is today, my brain meanders off into my past and finds solace and refuge in my childhood. Recalling some tiny, insignificant detail from my formative years reminds me that I was lucky to have had a childhood that I could fondly look back upon, and also assures me that I am still some ways away from suffering from Alzheimer's.
Today, out of the blue, I suddenly remembered how much I loved reading fiction as a kid. Well, I sort of lied there. The memory didn't pop out of the blue. I was in the library and my kids were reading. On a whim, I picked up a book and joined them. The book I picked - Murder On The Orient Express by Agatha Christie, one of the greatest storytellers to have ever graced this earth - spurred the memory, supplemented by the extreme heat of this summer day. Another grueling hot day like this flashed through my mind.
It was a hot June day in the summer of 1987 that I went back to. I was moving to 6th grade in the ensuing Fall. Now that I was bigger, I had graduated from Enid Blyton and abridged classics to more mature content, and my current favorite was mysteries. I had started dreaming of growing up to become Sherlock Holmes or Hercule Poirot - although I was leaning more towards Poirot, because like him, I would be a foreigner living in England, solving complex crimes around the globe, sometimes on the behest of aristocrats and royalty. Apart from this, I was also more attracted to Poirot's idiosyncrasies than to Sherlock's aggression and eccentricities.
I can clearly see the younger me lying on the bed, mid-afternoon, both feet dangling out between the vertical iron bars of the bedroom window of our second floor rented apartment. Only we called it first floor, the floor below being the ground floor. The rickety ceiling fan semi-successfully tried to cool my body, but the pleasant summer breeze outside definitely did wonders for my lower extremities. I was reading the same book - Murder On The Orient Express. I was completely lost in the intricacies of the world designed by Christie, where the crime was baffling, the characters involved both amusing and misleading, and the clues mind-boggling.
Reading a Hercule Poirot novel is an experience in itself. Page after page, I would puzzle about the goings-on, completely clueless about where the unfolding events were leading to. I would feel just like the characters in the book tagging along with Poirot assisting him in his quest for answers, hapless and helpless and completely unable to contribute. And like a magician, Poirot would assimilate everything thrown at him, piece clues and events together, and with a flourish, present a comprehensive and plausible explanation in the end that would blow my mind. The conclusion to a Poirot novel was like an addiction that I would crave for, and when it arrived, I would put the book away and lie there on my pillow, satiated, mesmerized, and wanting more.
Today, life is messier, more complicated, and way more demanding than that summer day of 1987. There are appointments to be kept, deadlines to be met, jobs to be completed, and mores to be observed. I cannot ask for a lazy afternoon devoid of any errands and chores where I would lie on my bed and read a book. But today, the few hours I stole from life to read Dame Agatha Christie's masterclass were as satisfying and joyful as that summer day three decades ago.
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