by Titiksha Singhal
When we finally selected one of my mother's photograph to put on display for her post-death ceremonial purpose, I plunged deep down in the narrow lanes of my memory and reached the point of time when that particular photograph happened. I was the one who clicked her into the moment, suggesting her a pose for the perfect click. That was a bright morning of a cheerful vacation. We were clicking for each other in turns, trying to capture the happy moments of our family trip. Above all, one thing I knew I could never have imagined in my worst nightmares was that I might have to use her pic of this sunny day, of a joyous month of April, of the rare moments of vacations captured in a blink of an eye, for a display in the name of highest reverences, remembrance and farewell, someday in future- a future that will follow just after 7 years of healthy life! She still was young but sick, very sick. Just a glance at the photograph that now stands in frame beyond the reach of my touch has driven me back into time I prefer returning back to. She still is that lively, cheerful, vibrant lady in a pinkish hued sari behind that frame, and in front of it are her children and husband squatted with teary eyes and hollowed hearts. The two sets of time are merely separated by just a semi-translucent glass. For a moment I am afraid that the other side of that frame does not come out to reach this present time. It would have completely freaked out the person on the other side clicking the photograph. Are the two instances really separated from each other? Are the people on the different sides of frame different from each other? Whether the thought is of dependency or independence of the two instances, it nevertheless fills me with horror. Horror of the oblivion that emerges as the distance between two sets of time increases.
When we finally selected one of my mother's photograph to put on display for her post-death ceremonial purpose, I plunged deep down in the narrow lanes of my memory and reached the point of time when that particular photograph happened. I was the one who clicked her into the moment, suggesting her a pose for the perfect click. That was a bright morning of a cheerful vacation. We were clicking for each other in turns, trying to capture the happy moments of our family trip. Above all, one thing I knew I could never have imagined in my worst nightmares was that I might have to use her pic of this sunny day, of a joyous month of April, of the rare moments of vacations captured in a blink of an eye, for a display in the name of highest reverences, remembrance and farewell, someday in future- a future that will follow just after 7 years of healthy life! She still was young but sick, very sick. Just a glance at the photograph that now stands in frame beyond the reach of my touch has driven me back into time I prefer returning back to. She still is that lively, cheerful, vibrant lady in a pinkish hued sari behind that frame, and in front of it are her children and husband squatted with teary eyes and hollowed hearts. The two sets of time are merely separated by just a semi-translucent glass. For a moment I am afraid that the other side of that frame does not come out to reach this present time. It would have completely freaked out the person on the other side clicking the photograph. Are the two instances really separated from each other? Are the people on the different sides of frame different from each other? Whether the thought is of dependency or independence of the two instances, it nevertheless fills me with horror. Horror of the oblivion that emerges as the distance between two sets of time increases.
