Raconteur
An ode to my father who is the best keeper of memories that I will ever know
There is a box of treasures spanning over a 100 years in my house. A house I physically moved away from, eight years ago, but a home I carry with me wherever I go. These treasures are of many kinds — black and white, sepia, coloured; some loose, some meticulously pasted in old, dark albums with butter paper separating each leaf and some as multi-coloured prints brightening up page after page of cream-coloured plastic albums. One of my favourite things to do whenever I am home is to open that box and escape into a different world. Several different worlds, actually. I get to pick from the sparse elegance of the 1920s, the anglicised Indian-ness of the 1940s, the restrained attempts at going wild of the ’60s and ’70s. And so much more. It is little wonder that for me, this box is pure magic. I can time-travel through visuals and feel nostalgic about a time when I wasn’t even born. Each photo is accompanied with a narrative that is captivating and brings the memory of that moment alive, almost as if it is unfolding in front of me.
And there is one person without whom this box and this experience would not exist.
My Dad. The best keeper of memories I have known and will ever know.
For someone who identified photography as one of his loves early on, Dad has painstakingly preserved the memories of all those before him, of his own life and everyone in it, across generations. Added to that, he has this uncanny ability to remember exactly what happened in each moment, the conversations before and after the photo was taken, and the emotions behind them all. What comes out therefore is a visual and storytelling combination unlike any other I know. I like to think it is a shared love between him and me, to pore over photos, examining and re-examining each stance, expression, hairstyle even. I ask to hear ‘that story when you went there and did this’ one more time and he always happily obliges. More often than not, there is one particular lot that I decide to settle on and even though I have heard the anecdotes so many times, I always want to hear them again and each narration feels as fresh as it did the first time.
Time and distance melt into oblivion as tales from decades ago, across geographies and people are regaled in a crystal clear fashion. The narrative is introspective, peppered with humour, elegance and wistfulness in that characteristic style of his. Anchored firmly in a place that anchors are best known for, these are stories of bravado, or as he puts it humbly, doing the right thing when it had to be done. Of bonhomie shared by 15-year olds stepping into a new world, as they committed themselves to a life of honour. Of adventures, cheeky misdemeanours, and as life progressed, of mistakes made and learnings therein. Of knowing when to stand your ground, and when to give in. Of speaking your mind no matter who was being spoken to. Of being an eternal optimist in even the darkest of times. And of always, always living life with your head held high.
Without saying it in as many words but conveying it all the same, through each memory I can see the storyteller‘s absolute and unabashed love for a life in uniform.
Old-fashioned love. Resolute, stoic and unconditional.
As he puts down one photo and picks up the next, it hits me that no amount of sepia tones can or will ever overshadow those crisp whites and deep blues embedded so deeply within him.
In the mind of the man who has the strongest influence in my life, and who will always find his biggest admirer in me, lies an incredible ability to hoard memories, and bring them alive every single time he speaks. Yarns from the seas, he calls them, recounting yet another. I know he will never grow tired of narrating them and I will never tire of listening to them. They are his favourite, after all, and quite intrinsically, they are mine too.
