“What is 13 times 7?”, my father would ask as he sat on the cot. Two odd numbers, something the adults used when they meant business. My eyes would widen, mouth gaping. Calculating if it was too late to reveal to my father that I was, in fact, deaf. Indeed at 7 years of age, that might be too late. Cursing the moment I asked to be tested, I would stress my brain to produce an answer, to varying degrees of success, inviting praise or wrath of my father accordingly.
As a society, we have held the ability to remember things in high regard. It is celebrated right from the beginning of our lives, when our parents present us in front of our relatives, asking to recite a complicated poem, or regurgitate names of the oceans, or Indian states, or some other feat of memory. The adults clap encouragingly, and we are met with proud smiles of our parents. We learn to accept this as good, and go on to remember the multiplication tables, birthdays of our friends, and even more poems.
Lately, we have come to understand the limitations of this approach. Perhaps, during the age of information scarcity and rapid industrialisation, it was desirable to have an education system that would produce men and women (but mostly men) who could remember formulas and mechanics to work in distant lands with little supervision.
So what about now? What purpose does the ability to remember things serve now?
Aside from the fact that memory serves as a useful indicator of a child’s cognitive development, there are certain professions where having the technical knowledge on the top of your head is essential; doctors, pilots, emergency responders, to name a few. After all, you wouldn’t want to wake up from half anesthesia to find your surgeon flipping through a book.
But more importantly, we build connections when we remember. And so, we build the strongest connections when we remember together. We build connections when we remember the names of the people we met in the corridors. We build them when we remember to carry that extra labcoat we promised to someone.
I like to imagine these memories as fine threads going through us. Some pierce a large group of people, like The threads of Noddy, Oswald, Tom & Jerry, etc. connect almost an entire generation, and how the threads of Ramayana connected the generations before us. I recently found out that the song “Yeh Seher hai Aman ka” from the movie Raaz (the original one) is one such thread that connects my brother’s generation, who is just 4 years older than me, and has left me completely untouched. Other threads pierce a much smaller group, like a closely kept secret. Some pierce much deeper, while others are shallow.
Memories also serve as an instrument of resistance. Today when the news cycle moves so fast, when the news of a tragic incident is followed by a video of cute cat, simply remembering the injustices of the past can be an act of resistance and a reminder to those in power to address the core issues, rather than brushing it under the rug and counting on our collecting amnesia.
In many schools of ancient Indian philosophy, the “soul” is imagined as an all knowing entity. It is through our actions that we are bonded to this ephemeral world, forgetting the “truth”. It is of little surprise then, that in Indian iconography and sculptures, lord Shiva the destroyer during his cosmic dance, or Tandava, places a foot on the demon of ignorance to crush him. A reminder for the devotee to remember the truth that is Shiva. Similarities are also found in many other schools of philosophy and religion as well. Plato believed in the world of “ideas”, where the soul belonged before the birth, knowing all concepts in their true essence. All knowledge, therefore, is just us remembering what we already knew.
While it’s possibly impossible to ascertain if we know everything before we are born, it makes one wonder if there are some things we already know. If our heart recognizes the beauty before our brains process it.
Couple of months ago, I found my instagram feed filled with Ghibli style photos of everything imaginable. From iconic bollywood scenes to reunion photos. My first reaction was that of fascination, then it slowly turned to an unfamiliar discomfort. Don’t get me wrong, I also converted some of my favourite photos to Ghibli styled photos and loved the results, but I couldn’t shake off the feeling of discomfort. Perhaps after following dozens of art pages for years, I felt something changed forever. Years to perfect an art style, all to be fed into a machine that can do it all day, instantly. For the first time in my life, I found myself on the other side of the technology debate. Maybe my discomfort stems more from watching the world I inhabited get ahead of me, and making the choice to let it happen.
For now, I want to remember the world before generative AI made it all too easy, and remember to occasionally pick up my paintbrush to create mediocre art. So I will soak my almonds, like my mother used to do for me, and remember. Together.
Leave a Reply