I flip though the photo albums filling the gaps in my memory, trying to recall the past. Photos of my childhood. The one from my trip to Yercaud, my tear-stained face at Suicide point in Kodaikanal, birthdays, celebrations, my ear piercing ceremony where I spotted a cast on my hand and more. Documented and saved. They tell a story and in today’s digital iPhoto age, I wonder what my daughter will flip through 20 years from now.

But then I finally find the courage to seek the album I wanted to look. Photos of my grandfather – the precious few that are around. Black and white and yellowing with age. I pull them out the plastic sleeve protecting them, carefully feeling the crumbling paper on my hand.

The people on the picture, staring at me are as familiar as they are strange. They are faces in the prime of youth. Faces that speak of joy, pride, challenge and achievement. The eyes that look at me show the drive and determination to succeed. I wonder if someone would look at my selfie 30-40 years later and think the same of me.

I look at the picture. One of the many. I see pride and I see happiness.I don’t remember the moment when this picture was clicked. I logically know it was taken on a trip to Yercaud. I know it was sometime in the late 80’s and there were 4 people on the trip. The Shevaroys hotel. I try to remember more and sadly I don’t.

I see the edges of the photo on my hand. Fading with time, blurring the images. They are like my memories – the precious few I have left with me. With time, memories fade and blur. I cry out in desperation trying to save those memories.

11 years have flown past and with time the memories of my grandfather grow blurred. I am trying very hard not to let myself rework the memories – to add a bit of enhancement. Photoshop it. Add a filter. I am a victim of the cruelty of time. I watch helplessly as the memories of my grandfather fade and blur with time.

And another year fades away.