Made-Up Memories

Nirvana Prasad captures the nebulous memories we aren’t quite sure of.

What does it mean to remember? 

A simple Google search tells me memory is the ability to bring into your mind an awareness of someone or something from the past. And that’s a pretty nice thought. It makes me imagine that I’m reaching my hand deep down into the well of my memories and hauling them back to the surface. 

But is that really how memory works?

I wouldn’t know, because I’m not a scientist. But what I do know and have experienced, is that a lot of my memories, particularly the older ones, are mostly made up. And every time I remember them, they change. 

I’m sure you know what I mean — like when your parents tell you stories of what you were like as a kid, well before your brain actually started storing memories. You can imagine the scenario playing out, but you don’t actually have a memory of the event. But after you imagine the scenario enough times, you make a memory that didn’t exist before. 

Or perhaps for a less intense example: you might have a faint memory from your second birthday where you were busy eating cake, icing smeared all over your face. But can you remember what colour the icing was? I would bet not. Although, when you picture the moment, I’m sure you choose a colour that feels right.

For me, the strangest memory I ever made up was about a little old lady who came to my grandmother’s house. I can vividly remember being a three-year-old sitting under the dining table, playing with the tassels of the tablecloth and watching quietly as my grandmother spoke to her from the kitchen. This old lady wore a bright white sari, her hair tied back in a neat bun. She would sit cross-legged on a cushion with some sort of cutting board in front of her on the living room floor. And she would chop vegetables. 

Why do I remember this? Did it even happen? 

I brought it up to my grandmother years later, but she doesn’t recall it ever happening. But why would I make that up?

Skipping ahead twelve years, I found a picture of the old lady in my parents’ wedding album. She was my father’s grandmother, and she had passed away in 1998 — a good six years before I was born. And as far as I could remember, I had never seen a picture of her until the age of fifteen. 

Why — and how — did my brain make up such a memory? I suppose I’ll never know. 

But I ask you to think back to your own memories and consider: are you sure all of them are real?