I Remember the Stories

No matter what the grief, its weight,

we are obliged to carry it.

These are the first two lines of a poem by Dorianne Laux titled ‘For the Sake of Strangers’. I retrieve those lines here and more in this post as I attempt to share a rather singular story that emerged out of a library experience.

 It is the Carnival weekend , here in Goa and in another fit of determination to keep reading active and activate resistance through reading we agreed to pop- up a library in a public garden in the city of Panjim. It is joyous in its vision but back breaking in its execution.

 We rise and gather momentum, the dull strength

that pushes us through crowds.

 If books are not weight enough and curation and arrangement simple tasks, I bravely decided we must continue to re cycle and raise funds. So boxes of clothing – new and almost were lugged into the garden and arranged for sale. I have been frumpish with this collection and look almost like a pile of clothing slumped over them every day, waiting for the hours to pass, envious of colleagues who are surrounded by books and creative arts.

And then the young boy gives me directions

so avidly. A woman holds the glass door open,

waiting patiently for my empty body to pass through.

All day it continues, each kindness

reaching toward another—a stranger

singing to no one as I pass on the path, trees

offering their blossoms, a child

who lifts his almond eyes and smiles.

As we were getting ready to close, I was sharing some pieces of clothing with two young girls who were eyeing the dresses with hardly the resources to buy even, at our rock bottom price of Rs. 50/- for each article of clothing. One of the girls said she would like a pair of jeans for her brother. This was possible and in a while her brother came to the pile to choose for himself.

 As we were huddled over the clothing pile, trying to find a t-shirt / shirt that would fit his lean frame, he looked me in the eye and said in Hindi, “ teacher you do not recognise me’. I was gobsmacked. This is one of my own ! A few minutes and much prompting from him I recalled and remembered that he belonged to one of our community library sites. Almost hugging him, I called for another team member, who recalled him immediately and over that pile of clothing, when fatigue and questions about purpose surround, I watched this young boy who lives on the street now, radiate because he met us again. “What are you doing ?”I asked. “Do you go to school ?” “ No” he said, “ I do not go now, but I remember all the stories.”

Somehow they always find me, seem even

to be waiting, determined to keep me

from myself, from the thing that calls to me

as it must have once called to them—

this temptation to step off the edge

and fall weightless, away from the world.