If life is a song, memories are its lyrics; and sometimes we forget some words while sometimes certain words stay with us, for a long long time. Going down memory lane and re-reading the lyrics is an exciting journey, not always happy, but recollecting the good ol’ days has always brought me a beautiful sense of tranquillity. In the hope of sharing my serenity and the calming nostalgia, I would write about one such thing, that is spread across my childhood and recalling about which brings me immense joy. 

My family originally hails from Howrah, a district adjacent to Kolkata. My grandfather moved to Tamluk, a small town two to three hours’ drive from Kolkata, in search of work. He started a business. While moving, he also brought with him a grandfather clock. And I would want to share the memory of this clock. 

The grandfather clock was a wall hanging clock, the case was deep grey to black; the top resembled an open gable roof, below it rested the main clock which was dull greyish olive green in colour, followed by the pendulum. My grandfather (whom I would have called ‘dadu’ but I wasn’t fortunate enough to ever meet), moved to Tamluk long before I was born, so the clock looked old, even when I was a child. But I never really understood the significance of the clock, the fact that it is rare (not really, it is still sold at a high price though, given its ‘vintage status”) and to some extent even antique; perhaps because I was used to seeing it, every day. Keeping aside its material value, my child self never realized its emotional value either. Today, however, when my memories come to me upon closing my eyes, this clock comes, as a vision and even more as a sound. 

The sound that came out of the clock has become the background music of my memories. I can still hear the “ding–dong” sound from the clock when I close my eyes, and it’s melodious. I remember, the sultry afternoons of summer holidays, everybody was taking a nap, except me, I don’t exactly remember what I used to do, but I do remember hearing the “ding–dong” every thirty minutes. I did not care much about it back then, but now when I recollect it brings my mind back to summer afternoons, dark rooms, and a noisy ceiling fan – just sweet nostalgia. This was when I was very young, eventually when I got older, academic pressure increased and I had to stay up late (than most people in my home) to cope. In those late hours of night, my house became eerily quiet, stationed away from the main town didn’t help either. On those quiet nights, when I stayed up late, I could hear the “ding–dong” clearer than ever, like it had transcended walls into my room, further away from the clock. Sometimes I got scared of the sound, the only thing that brought me out of the trance of studying. But I also remember thinking, that the clock was the only one awake with me in the entire house, making me aware of every passing hour, I felt very comforted at that.

It is strange to think how the same sound has so different memories. Out of many things from my childhood, this sound has stayed with me, and I hope it will. I have heard that sound and smell are the strongest components of memories, and I think it’s true, for the “ding–dong” from the grandfather clock is how I remember a big chunk of my childhood, and, of me.