Memories

Published in the Sunday Vijay Karnataka on 20 July 2025

By now, every time we entered a store, he’d look at one and say, “This one’s good, right?” And I’d respond like a picky matchmaker—finding some flaw in each.

Our Vietnam tour was nearing its end, but I still hadn’t found the perfect image of Budai—the Happy or Laughing Buddha—that I had in mind. We had seen grand statues across the country, and I was determined to bring home a smaller version. As always, my expectations were clear: the statue had to be under 10 inches (I had saved space for it), ideally white with hints of red, green, or yellow to match the blue background where it would sit. And most importantly, it had to look genuinely happy and welcoming.

Throughout the 10-day tour, we visited many souvenir shops, hoping to find the one. But my ideal version—a plump, fair, cheerful little Buddha—remained elusive. Sudhir had long stepped back from the mission. By now, every time we entered a store, he’d look at one and say, “This one’s good, right?” And I’d respond like a picky matchmaker—finding some flaw in each.

Eventually, the inevitable happened. It was our last evening in Ho Chi Minh City, walking down the vibrant Nguyen Hue walking street. Deep inside, I was disappointed but pretended to be cheerful—Sudhir didn’t need another reason to say, “Why so much fuss? A little compromise wouldn't have hurt!” So I silently let go of the Buddha hunt and told myself, “Enjoy the moment.”

The street was alive like a festival—dancers, performers, human statues, and tourists posing in party clothes. We soaked it all in, capturing a few photos. “When in Vietnam, do as the Vietnamese do.” That street lifted our spirits and made our final evening joyful.

As we considered turning back, something urged us to keep walking. “We’ll rest on the flight tomorrow,” we said, continuing to greedily soak in every last moment. Then, on the right, we noticed a large bookstore—open and inviting. Bookstores and stationery shops are our shared weakness. We went in, thinking we might find a book for the flight and also spend our remaining Vietnamese dong.

These stores offer a glimpse into local life—daily-use items, festive decorations, notebooks, and art supplies unique to the culture. I wandered deeper into the shop and suddenly—Eureka! I saw him.

A white-robed, joyfully smiling Happy Buddha, playfully carrying little disciples, not ceramic (thankfully!), and just the right height—under 10 inches. I was thrilled. It felt like a scene straight out of a Bollywood movie: “If you truly desire something, the universe conspires to bring it to you.” I believed in that line once again.

With that Buddha in hand, we began our journey back. Today, he sits in the exact spot I’d imagined, bringing back memories and reminding us to keep smiling.

Back in the day, every home had a showcase—with sliding glass to protect it from dust. Souvenirs from every trip would be carefully placed inside. Stories behind those items were often shared by parents or grandparents. Cleaning the showcase was a ritual. And if something broke during the process—well, the reactions were dramatic! The only thing I disliked was how tight those glass panels used to be.

Over time, sliding doors were replaced with hinged ones. Then came a phase when having a showcase at all was considered outdated or “cheap” by some architects. Instead, open shelves displayed pricey art pieces. But these store-bought showpieces often lacked personal stories and soon lost their appeal.

Then came the wave of minimalism—fewer objects meant more refined living. But even as trends changed, our travels continued. Every new city or country added something small yet special to our home.

We never said, “Let’s stop buying souvenirs.” How could we? Each item carried a story, a piece of the place we had been. Like today—while writing about the Happy Buddha, last year’s Vietnam trip came rushing back. Truly, life is about collecting such beautiful memories.

So, what to do with all these souvenirs? We decided to ignore minimalism a little and created a bookshelf-cum-showcase at home. Now, our travel keepsakes live on its open shelves. And on days when I’m alone or a bit low, I sit in front of it, revisiting the stories each piece holds. That quiet nostalgia lifts the mood better than any OTT platform.

Our colleague Roshni Bagwe is passionate about fridge magnets. She’s collected so many from different countries and cities—it’s a true travel record. One day, she requested our office HR: “Please give me a magnetic board. I want to gift my magnet collection to the office.” HR happily obliged, and now her collection brightens up a wall.

I’ve now caught the fridge magnet bug too—bringing one from every destination and adding it to that board. Recently, I saw another board in our tour management department, filled with country-specific keychains. When I asked Rajiv, Shrikrishna, and Sandeep about it, they said, “Tour managers bring one back every time they enter a new country—as a milestone.”

Brilliant! “Milestone keychains.”
It made me realize—we’re all building such memory collections, knowingly or unknowingly.

Even flipping through old diaries, scrapbooks, or an expired passport can sweep you into nostalgia. Many of our offices have this quote on the wall:

“Of all the books in the world, the most beautiful stories are found between the pages of a passport.”

So true. Every stamp tells a story. Go ahead—open your passport someday. You’ll be surprised at the memories that come rushing back.

If we want lives filled with joyful memories, we must live every present moment fully. What we do today becomes tomorrow’s memory.

So let’s go out there—and create beautiful ones.