3 texts on memory, forgetfulness and everything in between.

remember

[I]

I am writing to you while I sit in this van with my family, traveling on the rocky, undulating roads of Lahore's narrow allies, with the sounds of the traffic ringing in my ears.

My grandfather, who is sitting in the front, talks to the driver, telling stories of all sorts. From his childhood to his conferences in Karachi. The driver, who seems uninterested, and too focused on the road, still engages with occasional laughter and phrases of affirmation.

My grandmother is knitting something, perhaps a sweater for my younger cousin. Wool unravels as she pulls it from her bag.

My father is using his digital camera to take pictures of the people and shops in the street, taking advantage of the van stopping suddenly due to blockages. Pictures of the sabzi wala and the oddly symmetrical shops with wires coming out everywhere.

My mother is observing the world, while dozing off from time to time. Seeing the same roads and shops and how much it has changed, compared to the last time we were here.

In the last row, next to me, my sister lies asleep, with her mouth open and I cannot stop being amused whenever she flinches when we go over a speed breaker, which is more often than you think.

My brother on the other side, looks like he's watching what goes on outside from the window, with the sunlight turning his eyes and skin gold. In reality, I can tell he's actually daydreaming about something. Maybe a new video game idea, or what he's going to do when we go back home.

We are all in the same van, but we are all in our own worlds. In ordinary and silent moments like these, I find myself creating a mental note; remember this exact minute. I will never know if this could be the last time I'm with everyone here, in one van. I know I will miss it. I know I will yearn it back once it's gone. Even though I'm not comfortable, it is too tight and I am drenched in sweat, my throat is sore and I am so tired. But I would rather be grateful to Allah for now than to suffer when it's gone. I can manage the heat. Loss is always uncertain, time will burn me.

May 2024

[II]

When you moved to an entirely different continent a few years back, I made sure to ask you of everything. Of the timezone, where you lived and what were your school timings. Just so that I can make time to text you while you are active as well. I pinned the search of your timezone on my laptop and I would text accordingly. I also told you about my new neighbourhood, and what had happened to the last. How it's very quiet here, how the houses are sort of colour coded to show how many rooms are in each - and how I miss the old compound, because you left it too.

It has been so long, we don't really talk much, but I still subconsciously calculate the time you text or post. And maybe that's a bit weird and creepy but back then it wasn't, and now it has just embedded into my own body clock. When you texted me a few weeks back just for a small update, when you asked me, “Where do you live? I didn't know you left the old compound.” I felt my heart shatter into a million pieces. But how can I expect you, or anyone, to remember these small details. It is not a crime to forget, especially after many years. But it is because of these moments that make me so shocked when someone actually remembers a small detail of my life, I find myself going into disbelief everytime.

I gaze upon the stars when the sky is clear sometimes, how they pierce into the dark canvas like sharp needles, perfectly perpendicular to my eye. If someone told me to use these constelations as a way to climb to the other side of the world on the day you left, I would’ve done so without any hesitation. /But I would never put out my arms to reach the stars now./ I look at the stars and I am grateful for the impact you had in my life, even if we are never near each other now.

It is so heartbreaking to see features of people that were once dear to you on strangers’ faces. There was this girl in an event I attended, with your same height and eyes and nose and hair and clothing style, it is like she asked me to put my hands in the air and soon I'll be a captive, a prisoner of war. I knew nothing about this girl, except that she was a monument of you.

But what is sadder is that this memory of mine of you probably isn't you at all, I don't know the new you. I only know the old version. Unless I don't even know that, because memory distorts and changes shape whenever I go near it, and maybe I'll never know. I have tugged on the wool of memories of you too much now, that it has unraveled from the scarf I had made of you. And so, even if I try to knit back the scarf, it will never be the same. The patterns will never be the same. Morphed.

August 2024. Tranquility

[III]

morphing patterns

in this life, every memory is looped, interlocking with yarn using sharp needles,

and without realizing it, you are knitting your life as it passes by.

everyone has an individual pattern.

there are different colours and qualities of yarn,

creating different outcomes.

no-one really knows what they will make— a scarf, a cardigan, a coaster, a granny square, or just one singular chain.

the uncertainty of what the future holds for you, makes you want to knit selectively,

remembering certain things and forgetting others,

but all memories are knitted. whether you want to remember them or not.

one day, a woman who had her fabric as big as a football field,

took off her shoes, placed her needles aside, and walked down memory lane.

she walked through as if she were in a meadow, ignoring the tainted weeds and barren spots.

she plucked one flower, the memory of her making chai with her grandmother.

soon she plucked every flower in the garden, including the wilted ones.

she unraveled the entire piece, pulled on the yarn and the patterns began to cease.

organized patterns turned to tangled colours, her perception began to morph.

she forgot where she left her shoes and needles,

and now she is drowning in wool.

Knitting, by Clair Miller Hopkins

love,

afifa