Remembering Strangers

I carry within the huge bag all the emotions I’ve ever been through, all the words that put me down and pushed me forth, all the love and hate I’ve got, faces of people who wouldn’t eventually remember meeting me, voices of strangers, memories of those who promised to always be my best-friends, pieces of my old self and laughter from rare days of absolute happiness.

But how many of these faces will I remember after a decade? Will I remember that look of despair in the beggar’s eyes? Will I remember the face of that little girl who smiled at me for no reason? Strange, isn’t it? These people I didn’t know about yesterday, now have me wondering why our paths crossed. Will I see them again, I wonder. What if my memory is the only place these people remain in? Now I wish I spoke a word or two to the little girl or smiled at that beggar who looked helpless.

Kindness, is a lesson learnt not a lecture made in schools. These strangers and the unplanned encounters we have with them, change us forever. They leave me wondering what I could have done different. And I realise the irony in calling them Strangers because they are the realest, the rawest people we meet and in some way they are the closest we get to the purpose of being human; they haunt our vague minds on lazy days.

And the truth is, they might not remember seeing me across the room, but I will always do, until the always fades into another paradigm and into the dreams of those who are dead and gone; they won’t be spoken of.

So dear memories of strangers, I shall carry you on, until death do us apart.

Doesn’t it bother you?


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