Lahore, my madeleine
July 30
You know those bright
plasticky toys with lots of colorful buttons, big enough for little kid hands?
Every button you press, something cute or creepy pops out, and too often there
is a loud obnoxious nursery rhyme that follows? Some are educational, a cat
jumps out from a square and meows, while others make no sense at all, mooing
sounds from stars that change into a poem about roses or chirpy sentences in a
voice so squeaky and shrill it doesn’t sound like any language I know.
This time around I went
to Lahore, I felt like I had walked into a gigantic toy keyboard, everywhere I looked,
a hologram, a memory, a sound, conjured itself and followed me for a few
seconds, and then popped, like a soap bubble only I could see.
I think the reason I loved
Proust was because of the madeleine-induced prose that painted his past in
pastels all around him in such a way that he had no choice but to pen it down, calm
the writhing images and sounds and guide them into the pages of a novel, so
that he could regain his vision for the present…
I am fascinated by how
as time passes we become more like puppets, with the strings in hands of
inanimate objects and unassuming locations, the sight of a restaurant in a
particular light stuns us with the thoughts of a person we have not seen in
years, a song on the radio that we have heard so many times suddenly brings
back the emotions of 11 years past, reminding us of who we used to be and who
we thought we’d turn into, memories of happiness that are tinged with the
melancholy of time, events that never seemed important then, like fresh juice
on a terribly humid afternoon in H block, that stay in the burrows of our mind
for some reason.
My trip to Lahore this
past weekend was more like perusing through a memory book without meaning to,
each page turning threw up an invisible cloud of fairy dust, shimmering, caught
in the accidental light of the moon, too full to go down. The Daewoo ride to Islamabad, I believe it was
freshman year, I remember Hala, Sehar, Irfan, Ambreen, and of course you were
there. Nothing significant about that
motorway ride but for some reason it stuck, and the passage of 7 years has
turned the memory into something sweet, fermented wine, caramelized candy.
We zoom past the high
court and I remember when I asked Abu if I could go to the protest against the
emergency rule imposed by ex-president Musharraf, students from LUMS were
joining hundreds of others to march for a cause they believed in, and Abu said
no, but a long restless night of deliberation ended with a decision that led me
to go ahead and join a peaceful procession, I can remember the tree in the
court, and the old dusty buildings that were beautiful in all their decrepit,
faded glory of past decades.
Squeezed into rickshaws
that weave like drunken needles through a hodgepodge of traffic, a mismatched
puzzle with its clashing pieces jutting out, I see the wall hidden behind
trees, and remember when we drove through Aitchison, the gigantic, ancient tree
and the squat buildings and the stories of youth.
Through Y block and
remember when we drove to McDonalds in the rain and ate ice cream cones and
went back to attend classes, remember when Bilawal backed into a tree outside
Dunkin Donuts, remember when we talked to the ducks in HH block park and played
football and took pictures by the artificial waterfall? Remember when we never
let a cloudy day with a breeze go to waste, remember when we would wake up at 7
am if it had rained and get coffee in plaid pajamas? Remember when walking down
the orange-lit campus streets was the most satisfying, blissful thing to do?
Remember when getting bread-butter and tea was an activity that could lead to
hours in a khopcha, remember when we didn’t have to plan for four days a
two-hour activity with friends? Remember when we all had the time to sit and do
nothing?
It was a bittersweet
trip that reminded me of too many people, too many commonplace events that warm
my heart now just because they happened, from going to the tailor to get black
armbands for the group to stand with the lawyers of our country, to the ten
minute walk to a café for its uncomfortable straight backed sofas and delicious
masala fries.
Lahore, my madeleine, I
do miss you.
<3
ReplyDelete