October 2004 Archives

It is a curious mixture of emotions that has been doing the rounds of my head this evening; despite the concerns I've expressed previously, I have again been able, tonight, to sit down to another meal in the company of my dear grandfather, discussing the current state of things, politically minded as he is, as well as, inevitably, how things used to be.

Every time we speak, I think about recording all the things we share -- his memories of the wars and hostile occupation, the quirky stories and simple, inspiring recounts of our family's past, all the things that he enjoys recounting tirelessly, and which don't even begin to bore me -- but I don't; it just doesn't seem appropriate.

Part of me wants to hold on to it all permanently, and part of me just wants to remember, and though for many years my mother and I have both thought about writing some of it down, it's not something we've ever come to do. I don't think we'll get the chance; he'll be returning to Pakistan shortly, and will soon be too frail to travel. I'll be saying goodbye to him tomorrow, and I've been told it may well be the last time I ever see him, though I know well enough to keep my faith in the present.

Tonight he gave me a catalogue, dated 1935, of the teak and mahogany furniture produced by the family woodmill in Rangoon during the decades that preceded the invasion of Burma. Though bound in leather and of doubtless quality for its day, its neglected pages are yellowed and moth eaten, crumbling in places, the binding failing. And on the back page are three dignified silver prints; my grandfather, Ahmed, as he was in his teenage years, his older brother, Yacob, and in the centre, looking every inch the grand patriarch, my great grandfather, Binyamin. I'm not sure what it was that I felt, but when I came up here to my room, the only thing I wanted to do was lie down, bury my face in my pillow, and cry.

Times change; people die; memories fade; all we are left with is history.

Mount St Helens has erupted again after a long breather; nothing major, as yet, but still a source of fascination as I've always been enthralled by volcanoes, with vivid images of the catastrophic eruption of 1980 stuck in my head from when I was three or four years old -- this was, of course, recorded footage in documentary form, since I was only four months and two days old when the majestic old mountain obliterated itself in the largest avalanche in recorded history -- what a reminder.

Of course, earth-geeks will all know that we're thousands of years overdue for a volcanic super-eruption, the kind of geotectonic event with the power to affect the planet in its entirety; though I could be wrong, the Toba super-eruption in present day Indonesia was probably the last of these, and that was a good 70 000 years ago. While the Sunda arc, a subduction zone between the Indian Ocean and Eurasian plates, remains a source of geological excitement, the mountain currently predicted to be the next man up is Mt Rainier, the centrepiece of the beautiful Olympic National Park near Seattle, Washington. I would say that I'd be sorry to see it go, as it's one of the prettiest areas I've ever seen, but considering the Toba eruption may have brought the human population of the world down to 10 000 in the blink of a geological eye, I probably won't be around long enough to form much of an opinion.

Last night was the first of the season in which Cambridge could be seen through Autumn eyes, slipping on her shimmering ghost of a Winter dress that only improves with the shortening of days and the slow bleeding of vital colours from the trees and buildings around. With the advent of sundown materialised a light mist that cast everything into soft relief, and with the ever deepening moonshadow, punctuated here and there by the cheery, orange glow of college lights through ancient leaded windows, came whispered memories of bone aching cold, heavy coats and warm cider steaming between clasped, gloved hands.

Above all things I'll miss the warmth, but part of me is glad that winter is on its way.