Sleepless

Last night I realized why I try to forget things immediately—people, incidents, everything other than what may be related to work. I thought my memory had deteriorated over the years. Not true at all. It had been suppressed. It reminded me of a belief I still hold true—good memory can be bad. Regrettable memories from the past don’t let you live in peace.

After having slept a total of some 20 odd hours in the past week, the only thing on my mind during the weekend was sleep. And that’s exactly what I did. Slept whole of Saturday and most of Sunday. But since my system was not used to so much rest, I couldn’t sleep a wink that night. After tossing and turning and trying my level best to tire myself out I decided to resort to a long forgotten remedy—reading. This passion from the distant past, which used to keep me awake night after night, had sometime back degenerated into a sure shot remedy for instant sleep.

And that was the biggest mistake I could have committed on a warm sleepless night like this. But how was I to know that then.

Since I had convinced myself to do some reading, I thought I might as well make it heavy stuff. I picked out the thickest book from my backlog. It turned out to be a collection of Chekhov’s short stories. I thought this should do the trick of putting me to sleep immediately. How wrong I was!

Well, an hour later I had read 5 or 6 stories. And instead of putting me to sleep I discovered what I was missing all these months by not reading. But the thought of office the next day made me close the book.

Unfortunately, some of the ideas from the book stayed on in my head. Two stories set me thinking. Both I feel spoke about the meaninglessness of existence—one of the reasons I don’t read so much these days. These Russian and French writers can drive you crazy by pounding your head with such stuff.

The first story, Rothschild's Fiddle, also touched on how people take ‘loved ones’ for granted only to realize their importance once they are gone forever. The Head of the House, however, spoke of heartbreak and the reentry of the lover into the protagonist’s life years later. That one incident changed so many lives. But from the outside life still continued the way it always had.

However, what interested me was that the protagonist, a doctor, didn’t regret the heartbreak but the fact that he had actually fallen for the woman and had even proposed marriage. Superiority complex I guess. Or maybe he was shocked at how mere beauty compelled him to fall for a woman in whom there was hardly any substance. Maybe this is what made him bitter and cynical towards the end. I really don’t know what Chekhov attempted to say.

But this made me go back in time. Incidents, I would gladly like to forget, resurfaced. Incidents, which in hindsight, I believe, played an important role in shaping me into what I am today. And the worst part was that since sleep was not forthcoming I spent the next two hours recollecting each stupid incident right from childhood to now. Thankfully, I couldn’t recollect any blunders or embarrassing moments in the last few years. Have I grown up?

Well, no matter how hard I tried to rid my mind of such thoughts there was no escape. The hurts and pains I have caused others, right from parents to grand parents to teachers, classmates and friends. Am sure most of them have forgotten those incidents. I really don’t know where most of them are today. I would like to find out and maybe undo some of the mistakes or at least apologize. Don’t think it will make any difference now. But at least the irritating memories will be washed away.

I really don’t know why I am feeling bad about it today after so many years. I never really thought I had any emotions. Most of the incidents were unintentional anyways. Maybe it’s old age catching up before time:)