The Memories Remain

A revered storyteller reflects on how the power to remember builds, shapes, and even rescues, who we are

- Ruskin Bond

I was going through a drawer full of old manuscripts and notebooks when a long-pressed maidenhair fern fell out from between the pages of a notebook. It had lost its colour but was undamaged, and it still looked very pretty lying against the white pages. For me, maidenhair is the prettiest of all the ferns-delicate, almost fragile, but held together by a strong dark stem that resembles a maiden's hair; hence its name. You will find it near water, usually on the fringes of a small spring where there is not much sun nor too much shade.

Sometimes I come across it quite by chance, its tender green fronds brightening up a dry hillside. If I go looking for it, it proves elusive. Life's like that. If you want something very badly, it can be hard to get. Turn aside, forget it and it will come to you when you least expect it. This particular fern brought back memories-or rather, one particular memory, of a picnic by a mountain stream. Sushila, whom I loved, was sitting beside me on the grassy bank, holding hands. She took her hand from mine for a moment and plucked the frond of maidenhair from the plant that grew there quite profusely, and gave it to me to preserve.