Dear Ammama

Dear Ammama, 

I often wonder how easy it is for certain people to forget the past and move on. And then there's me, who still talks to you in my head. I like how that sounds, talking to somebody in your head. Although it isn't a two-way conversation, I still remember how you sounded. So today I thought that maybe I could write to you instead. I mean, does it matter to the dead that I'm using a keypad and a screen instead of my head? I hope it doesn't. 

Today, I discovered something. I remember having this conversation with a friend who asked me "what" my inner voice sounded like or rather "who". At first, I thought it sounded like me, but a more muffled version of it. However, it wasn't my voice; it was yours. The voice in my head sounds exactly like you. 

And then I tried recollecting the old Malayalam classics, the ones you used to sing to me. Most of them from the yesteryears of black-and-white cinema, and some from the 90s. In an attempt to recollect the intangible memories, I played them on youtube, wish I had a transistor radio instead.

It's the same with photographs, they are a chariot to the past, the only difference being the sense of touch. 

The other day, I was clearing some of my old stuff, and I found your photograph. Tucked into an old saddle-stitched journal from 2002, nicely resting between the pages, bearing a faded tint of brown from the dust and the years that went by. 

I like how I find things when I need them the most. I needed something to remind me not to give up. And there you were, although in debris, like a faded memory, still smiling. I could hear your laughter echo through the photograph. 

So today, I placed your photograph carefully in a space only I know in the hope of stumbling upon it by chance while rummaging through my stuff on a particularly rainy day (metaphor).