Memory is such a curious thing. Just yesterday night, I forget my backpack somewhere in the campus with no memory the next day of where it was. Yet, I remember every single detail of those days spent in La Resistancia at Avenida Azcapotzalco in the company of amazing people from around the world. But that’s a different story however, and the house in question was not the benevolent Resistancia. Come to think of it, I’ve always had a writer’s fetish about houses. The abandoned Mohan Villa near my old home, the Glass House of the nameless architect.. Speaking of memory, I wonder how much of it was memory, how much was imagination. They say that time smoothens out the edges of your memory, so that remembrances are always fond.
It was a beautiful January evening in Mexico City, with a weather that precariously treaded the line between sunny, windy and chilly. Quite enough of a fine weather that we decided to take a walk down to the magnificent Parque Bicentenniale a couple of miles away from our home. We being myself and Esther, the sweet yet very strong headed German girl who had the persistence and patience to drag my lazy self from a comfortable afternoon nap to a healthier yet less comfortable alternative. We jogged, correction, she jogged and I walked right behind the lady along the streets that were already becoming familiar to us. On the way, I barely noticed the house on the way, yet somewhere in my subconscious it must have struck a chord of emotional resonance. It was on another walk some days later though, when I had the time and opportunity to fully appreciate what treasures the journey to the park brought me.This time it was with two other people, Rishab, my Indian friend and Paulina, a freshly acquainted beauty of a polish girl, that I was trudging along purposefully. It was the dog that first caught my attention. Or to be accurate, the elaborately patterned sweater the dog wore. I stopped and stared, like how any normal soul blessed with the usual dose of curiosity would do.
[To be continued]..