Ruffalo and Rasgullas

In the years past, I never jotted down birthdays in any calendar, and always operated from memory .... but, these days I check the cheat-sheet for what's ahead.  I suppose getting older means that some of the particulars fade away.  

There once was a time, not too long ago, when I was actually, seriously, interested in the specifics.  Now, it is almost like I have a different brain altogether.  My brain does not want to deal with fine details anymore.  

The other day, when watching a movie, I immediately recognized the actor.  But, what was his name?

Well into a few minutes of the movie, the old brain continued to work on the puzzle.  Finally--and thankfully--it clicked.  "Mark Ruffalo," I yelled out.

The younger me would not even have thought about this. Almost as a reflex, I would have remarked, "oh, Mark Ruffalo."

I am not my younger self.  However, this does not bother me as much as the balding head does!  

I am convinced that it is not a short-term or long-term memory issue, but merely reflects changing priorities.  The name Mark Ruffalo itself is not important anymore.  Life is not a game of Jeopardy!  As simple as that.

Growing older is wonderful that it is like sifting life through a sieve and the brain then figures out what is important enough to retain.  Instant recall is no longer an urgency.  The stories are what matter.  Good stories. Bad ones. Tough ones. Hilarious ones. Tragic ones.  Stories nonetheless.

Of course, the focus on the story and the sifting away of finer details like names or numbers means that slowly the stories morph in the re-tellings.  

When I was younger, it was fun for us kids to even point out the inconsistencies in my grandmother's stories, to which her response often was தப்ப பிடிச்சு வாயில போடு (literally translating to "catch the mistakes and put them in my mouth" to imply that we kids had nothing better to do than do something that silly.)  Like my grandmother, here I am re-telling stories that may or may not be consistent with the previous versions.  I now know that aging does that!

I wonder how my own stories will morph if I get really old.  What will happen to a story like the one about the number of gulab jamuns that I had in one sitting, during my undergraduate days?  I had twenty-two at the all-you-can-eat lunch at our favorite Gujarati restaurant.  

It might become a story of 32 jamuns; maybe the city name will change from Coimbatore to Calcutta; instead of my undergrad days it becomes a story of when I started working; perhaps the gulab jamuns become rasgullas in the re-telling.  

But, dammit, I will have stories. And they will be mine.

And, to make things easy, maybe I will begin to wish everybody a happy birthday on the first of every January.