The Shape Of Memory: What Writing Memoirs Can Teach Us About Dying

My beloved grandfather passed away recently. He was one of the people I loved the most: the brighter part of my childhood, now a shining star. A couple of years earlier, I had decided I would write a book on his life. While writing the book, I learnt much more than I had set out to. The memoir is one of the most popular genres for both readers and writers. Fiction is a favourite form with a lot of writers, but there are fewer takers for it. The market for the memoir/autobiography and biography, on the other hand, is relatively huge. There is something fulfilling, almost evolutionary about preserving one’s life story. Reading someone’s life story is also both the ultimate form of voyeurism, but it’s also memory-keeping, as is taking photographs or even posting on Instagram. And who are we and what is our impact without the memory of all our past selves, all our successes and failures? But the relationship between the reader and the writer of a memoir is more than just memory-keeping. It brings up questions about not only how to live but also how to die. 

The book about my grandfather took many shapes and forms. He was a very prestigious and successful architect, so we thought we would photograph all his work. We then thought of writing it for a mainstream publisher. My grandfather seemed very excited about the project. But as with all seemingly humongous projects, it was difficult for me to focus and pin it down. It remained half-completed. My quest for perfection has meant that it remains undone.

When my grandfather was diagnosed with cancer, we all flew down to visit him. At that time, a friend of his had come over. He asked me where the book was, and said I should complete it as there was a literal deadline. Though my grandfather was brave, I don’t think he wanted to go just yet. 

As he had become older, he had taken to telling his grandchildren many, many stories. Unfortunately, at that time, we brushed it off, even choosing not to sit with him at restaurants, so that he would not ‘bore us’ with yet another story. But here we were — confronted, for the first time, by death. This protector, this legend and all his stories had a deadline. As a writer and editor, I’m used to working on a deadline. I knew how much I wanted to remember my grandfather as I did then. I knew the depth of emotion I was feeling now would be a catalyst. Later, the memories might fade and acceptance may set in. I didn’t know if I would be able to access what I needed after.

I wanted to hold on, keep the memories that kept popping up, and access them whenever I wanted to. I wanted my grandfather to know that his precious stories would be recorded and remembered. His contribution to architecture would not be forgotten. This, I had sensed, was very important to him. So, I poured everything that was in my head and heart onto paper. We used the audio recordings we had of him over the years — taken for earlier versions of the book. But I also gathered and listened to as many stories as I could, recognising these were some of the very stories I didn’t care about earlier. Each nugget became precious, a view, an angle into the kaleidoscope that was my grandfather’s life. As I have said to many before, he has lived the life of 100 people. I didn’t even cover a percentage.

Can a simple narrative ever be a comprehensive ‘summary’ of a person’s life? My grandfather loved Nazi movies; he built 47 hospitals; he slept in the Queen of England’s bed; he loved Thailand.  I loved the tone of his voice, the way he made me feel when I entered a room. Where would one put these details? The bits and pieces? 

I struggled with keeping the book a surprise and letting him know I was doing it. But I then remembered how enthusiastic he had been about the project and let him know. From then on, he would send me voice notes whenever I could have the energy. He very much shaped how he wanted to be remembered. One of his quotes was: “If I had to write an autobiography of my life, I would talk about my experiences rather than my successes,” and that’s how we shaped the book.

Recently, I read a wonderful memoir, Maybe You Should Talk to Someone: A Therapist, Her Therapist, and Our Lives Revealed (2019), in which a psychotherapist recounts her experiences with her patients, what she learnt about life and therapy through them. One of the patients is dying from cancer. And she meticulously plans her own funeral. In therapy, she grapples with the question: ‘Will I be remembered? How will I be remembered?’ and the therapist posits that what she is asking is: Will a part of me remain alive in you?’
That’s what I wanted to convey to my grandfather with this book. That a part of him, a small part of his urgently told stories, will remain alive in me. That the stories he had urgently told us would be kept alive.

Memoirs can take various shapes and forms. But most often, they are more than a simple recounting. There is a strong emotional thread that runs through most retellings of someone’s life. Of what they want to be remembered for, of righting wrongs, clarifying mistakes. A memoir can be catharsis or self-exploration. 
Memoirs always follow the major dramatic points of a person’s life story, whether it’s pain, success or relationships. And they ask questions about those plot points. Joan Didion’s memoir, The Year of Magical Thinking, is a catharsis, an exploration of grief. Closer home, Rituparna Chatterjee’s magical realism memoir (The Water Phoenix, 2020) is an exploration of abuse and catharsis. Rohini Rajagopal’s What’s a Lemon Squeezer Doing in My Vagina? (2021) is an account of infertility. Vivek Tejuja’s memoir, So Now You Know: Growing Up Gay in India (2019), focuses on his life as queer man, and Lisa Ray’s memoir (Close to the Bone, 2019) is about surviving cancer. When I asked Chatterjee about her book on my podcast, she said “this is a book about healing from your hurt.’ Business memoirs, too, follow dramatic arcs of the protagonist’s story: deals gone wrong, bad decisions, life learnings from mistakes, relationships and mentors.
 

Before the experience of writing for my grandfather, I had some experience with ghost-writing. I have ghost-written two very different autobiographies of businessmen. And it was a very personal experience. I had to spend a lot of time with these people, hear them narrate their stories — and I could sense that I must get this down just so; it was a part of legacy-building. One of the books focused more on relationships, the other on childhood experiences. Success, like in my grandfather’s book, was a by-product of risks and failures. That’s how people remembered their life. Through the moments, not the numbers. 

In the end, when I asked my grandfather for his stories, his voice would take on the same intonation and pride as those businessmen. Those who write their memoirs are proud: of the way they have lived life, their achievements and, most of all, their experiences and learning. Of surviving and thriving. They all have the time to look back and reflect. Those who write their memoirs have come out the other side. Much like the dramatic arc of a story, the memoir is the resolution.

We build narratives as we live life. We see patterns, we raise questions that swirl in our heads for months — this is why I write personal essays, to make sense of it all. We gain new perspectives on failures and new empathy with tragedy. A deeper understanding: wisdom. And this is the wisdom that I have seen people want to leave behind. This is the legacy they wish to continue. This is the act of writing a memoir. For me, it was an act of love. 

(Tara Khandelwal is the founder of storytelling company, Bound. Her podcast, Books and Beyond with Bound, is in the top 1.5 per cent of global podcasts. She is an alumna of Columbia University and lives in Mumbai.)