Some memories are so potent, that instead of limiting themselves to the realm of  space and time, they crystallize into a dimensionless form, only stored as an image between two sheets of butter paper—forever insulated from the influence of Time. And unlike regular memories that float at the surface of our subconscious, reminding us of what we ate, did, or who-said-what-to-whom, these stay firmly anchored in our core, waiting to rise to the surface when one is swimming in deep waters, searching for meaning. Searching for themselves. 

A sultry afternoon air hangs in the room. It’s only me and the boxy Samsung television for company. I’ve switched the fan off, as mother is napping in the other room. The still blades of the fan are covered with small balls of dust on the edges, stuck to the surface but not falling. The still air helps in listening to the TV at a low volume, so that no one gets disturbed and disturbs me. I’ve no where to be. The thick sky blue curtains allow slim shafts of light from between them, falling on the cool marble floor. It’s time for my favourite travel show on Lonely Planet Kids (or was it Discovery Kids?), where the host visits homes in different countries, shows the viewers how they live, and eats with the family. 

Today, he’s visiting a large Muslim family in Lebanon (or was it Morocco?) who live in a sprawling off-white house with dome shaped doorways. The house is like a compound, accommodating more than ten family members, ranging from small kids to great aunts. The kids are playing in the background with sticks, and the kitchen is alive. The host is exploring their lives, merging his rhythm with their tune effortlessly, as if he’s been living with them since forever. He is asking the family members questions about their lives, and I am in a different world. The space around me fades, and I’m inside the television, watching strangers from a far away land live their lives. Watching them cook, laugh, and eat together on the floor. I’m sitting on the floor myself, looking up at the sepia-toned screen; my window to the world. The clock strikes 4:30 at the credits roll. I’m reeling from the immense joy of watching something so exquisite. 

It’s another languid afternoon, and I’m hanging out with Kylie Kwong, my favourite Asian host on TLC. She’s roaming the bustling streets of Hong Kong during the Chinese New Year, and speaking in her iconic thick accent while sampling the juicy pork skewers and dumplings. The red street decoration is mesmerizing. I am lifted from my bed, carried into the screen, and plonked on the delicious street. She handles the chopsticks like a master, slices white shallots like a pro, and her smiling eyes reach out to me from behind her thick black-rimmed glasses. The immensity of her joy is mine in that moment. 

The potency of these memories crystallize these moments into enduring images, unbeknownst to the fourteen-year-old me, who’ll take a lifetime to decode their meaning. But time and again, these images have projected a way forward, a path where none existed, simply because it’s the true nature of the soul to follow them. And even now, when I sometimes end up wandering through these images, I no longer wonder why I wander.