Preserving memories is perilous activity. I refrain from collecting intimate objects that hold emotional significance, and, contrary to what you may have heard from Ms Coelho, rarely take photographs anymore.

I had not always been this nonchalant. A few years ago, when I was presented with a laptop of my very own, it felt like I finally acquired a personal organized space, where I could create and document my thoughts and impressions in many different forms. My central outlet was photography. Capturing significant and sometimes completely random moments of the day became a routine habit. There were shots of a variety of subjects but, in the last year, a number of them consisted of my little sister who was recently born, so the fresh enthusiasm of the time compelled more to picture her every living breathing moment. Pictures of school and friends were used in the yearbook, and raw shots of nature would always come in handy for Art projects. I would devote at least an hour everyday to storing them in an organized fashion, and, when feeling inspired enough, typing in ideas observations. Very soon the number of photographs I had stored became virtually uncountable.For five years I stored memories on a hard drive. Due to the fact that it was a Macintosh, it has never been attacked by a virus, or had ever needed to be rebooted. When a machine works with such confidence, one forgets itís not invincible. So one night I placed the computer on the bedside table and decided to take a nap. Half asleep, I could hear people whispering and shuffling about. I awoke when I heard something appeared to be different except that the laptop to turn no. I assumed it was out of battery and put it on charging. When everyone became busy, my younger sister saw her chance, and immediately tried to reach for the 'toy' we all kept away from her. She pulled on its wire and, in spilt second, the machine lay on the floor. My brother sneakily tried to place it back next to my bedside table, so I would not suspect the accident ever occurred.

When we moved back from Dubai to Karachi, a whole box that contained personnel objects from my room never turned up. It included autographs and souvenirs, collected from various people and places over a long period of time, each holding a special importance relating to a memorable experience. However, this time around, I accepted the loss almost immediately, without uttering a harsh word to my dad.