The earliest notion of a friendship I remember is about a boy of my age. I was six then. We used to visit a nearby mango grove after school. He was quite the climber and had a talent for snatching mangoes. It's all hazy now. But one of those interactions I remember vividly. So, he climbed up on a mango tree, as usual. Found a ripe mango and made a small hole underneath the mango while it was still attached to the tree and I could just open my mouth standing underneath and have the dripping mango juice.

Sounds silly and awkward now. But he changed school that year and I met him again after four years. He couldn’t remember me. I don’t blame him, we were growing young kids and a year to a kid is like an eon. And no, I’m not making this up. You can search online and journals. Ever felt the years are going by too fast for you as an adult, but it wasn’t so when you were a child? Well, relativity is an arse.

Anyway, seeing that he didn’t remember me crushed my little heart. I also felt a bit insulted. 20 years later after that incident, writing this mastless blog, I realize I can recall his face precisely because I knew he had no memories of me. Perhaps it’s all on me to cherish those mundane yet nostalgic moments of that mango grove. I myself forgot a lot of friends from my preteen ages over the years and I’m quite sure many people will be able to relate. After all, we forget, so we can live.

I also don’t remember the face of my first crush. I was nine. She was an exchange student, studied with us for a year. We became friends quickly and she used to laugh a lot. I don’t remember why I liked her anymore. After that fateful year, I never met her again. I only remember her first name. But no, I’m not gonna try and find her out. There is a high chance she won’t recall any memories of me.

I vaguely remember some of my other classmates, who weren’t exactly friends but acquaintances. I don’t know why but I feel a rush of emotion when one of them pops up in my mind. I also don’t know why I feel bad that they are forever lost to me. Perhaps I’m a sentimentalist. Nevermind, I know these thoughts have no practicality and I’m only moved by my own motive, to drug myself with the deadliest drug of them all - nostalgia.

Then there’s a different kind of not remembering. Forgetting the stuff you need to remember to function in society. Remembering your spouse’s birthday, anniversary day, first day together. Why don’t you remember that special day anymore? Don’t you love me anymore?
Forgetting also the simpler things, like your passwords.

A few years ago I got a serious electrical shock and was hospitalized. Since then, I have said goodbye to most things DIY. I used to think that accident fried some of my brain cells and that’s why I forget the obvious stuff!
Sharing this dark secret with close friends assured me everyone forgets these little things. Hmm… perhaps, our primitive brains are still struggling with the nuances of civilizations.

Writing on this topic reminded me of a classic short sci-fi story I read a couple of years back. Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes.

So a couple of scientists took an everyman with down syndrome and operated on him and also on a lab rat simultaneously because, apparently, that rat was smarter than him.
The everyman started to get smarter. Smarter than the rat, his so-called friends who used to tease him for being dumb, his crush who pitied him, and then the scientists as well who made it all happen. He started to delve into the most complex researches, the most complex philosophical questions. He breathed in happiness listening to Beethoven.
Then everything started to deteriorate.
He couldn’t understand the research papers he himself made a few days ago, he couldn’t enjoy moby dick anymore. He started to forget everything and everyone he knew. I will not spoil the end for you but a good piece of literature shouldn’t bar you from reading it just because a brute like me spoiled it. The authors are far more sophisticated, I sincerely believe. The chances are you’ve already read it, it’s over 60 years old.

Reading that story, I remember weeping for the everyman. How powerless he felt, how miserable it was for him to see everything he held dear slipping away, inevitably, surely and there’s nothing he could do to stop that. Perhaps I could imitate his emotion in me or related to him in any way. Or perhaps not. I was always good at seeing myself in other’s shoes. This is also why I love fiction and they keep tormenting me.

I want to remember as many things and as many people humanly possible, even if I get forgotten, discarded. After all, we are nothing but a collection of memories.