Chasing a Memory: The Balmy Breeze That Wasn’t

A shot of the Queen's Necklace, Marine Drive at night from Nariman Point, with flood lights in full bloom at Wankhede and Brabourne Stadiums.

I don’t remember how or where I first heard it, but the phrase has been etched in my memory for over a decade. As far as I can recall, I was in school at the time, and if my memory serves me right, it was written in my English textbook. The full phrase might have been "...a balmy breeze blowing...", though I’m only certain of "balmy breeze". Something that has stuck with me all these years. But why? I have no idea.

Every few years, it resurfaces like a flashback from a past life, leaving me restless. What does it even mean? No teacher explained it, and I never mustered the courage to ask. After all, how much could it really matter? Like most state board private schools, mine too focused on grades, not understanding. Our system has been built over centuries, and inertia is too strong for real change, alas, at the cost of true studentship. Never did I think it would haunt me like this.

It’s hard to explain this feeling, like having a memory but not being able to recall it. I know what balm is, and I know what a breeze is. But what on earth is a balmy breeze? I can sense it; the warmth, light yet enveloping, like a stream of hot spring water floating past you, lifting you slightly off the ground. And yet, I can’t remember experiencing it. It’s like experiencing a hyper realistic dream, nothing ever happened, yet I remember it. And every time the phrase resurfaces, the frustration of not being able to recall this artificial memory returns with it.

Today, March 10, 2025, I was working a little late. Lately, it has become a ritual to take a stroll by Marine Drive after overtime, a personal reward. After all, witnessing the Queen’s Necklace adorn the Arabian Sea every other day is a privilege few middle-class Indians have access to.

I closed my laptop. Filled my bottle. Punched out. As I rolled up my sleeves while stepping down the stairs, I noticed the usual evening chill was missing. I guess summer has arrived, I thought. You miss out on a lot when you spend the whole day in a temperature-controlled room.

I walked past The Oberoi, crossing the street watching left and right and as I stepped onto the pavement, something unusual happened. I froze. Time stopped, just for a moment. It was as if I had witnessed fiction turn into reality. A belief I had held for years, as strong yet uncertain as Winston Smith’s faith in The Resistance, had just materialized. For a fleeting moment, I was in a reverie, engulfed by a weightless warmth, swayed by a cloud of heat and air - a balm. It was then that I became one with the author who once wrote "...a balmy breeze blowing...".

Now, I understand what he meant.

What a pleasure it is to live in a tropical country, to understand literature, to feel what it conveys, to know that words can transmit experiences across time and space, reaching people miles and centuries away.