The inability to bring to mind the right bit of info at the right time can be very frustrating. At long last, when the flickers of intuitions finally sputter aflame to shed some light on that dark recess of the brain, the dye’s been cast, the delayed recollection rendered useless.

Nonetheless, not all slippages of mind are counter-productive. Forgetting is one of the subtle strategies the mind employs to erase traumatic memories, for instance. In some cases, a sieve-like think-tank up there might even help prop up your vanity. A lore goes: When Lord Krishna instructs the Vrindavan folk to worship Goverdhan Hill in place of Indra, the latter literally blows his lid. “These cowherd men in Vrindavana have neglected my authority on the advice of this talkative ...child”, Swami Bhaktivedanta Pravupada quotes Indra in Krishna Book. Only when Krishna lifts the mound on the tip of his finger does the derisive demi-god comprehend his true standing.

But if Indra’s blank slate was the result of his vanity, the amnesia afflicting Krishna’s beloved Arjun is a shade harder to digest. During the last-ever face-to-face between the two in

Indraprastha, Arjun requests Krishna to narrate to him the Bhagwat Gita anew. Says Arjun,

according to Dr Jagadish Sharma’s The follow-up Gita: “Because of the distractions of my mind... I have forgotten that knowledge you had then (at Kurukshetra before the epic battle of Mahabharat) so kindly imparted to me.”

Interesting, I thought. At least mythology bears out my reasoning of “distractions” causing the loss of my memory. Or (what do I know?) the blurry brainwaves might be programmed into my genes. The best scapegoat, though, I hit upon in my all-purpose resource book. “Stress,” an excerpt goes, “causes the endocrine glands to secrete high levels of homocysterine amino acid which hinders the flow of oxygenated blood to the region of the brain responsible for memory”.

No matter what their cause — and useless they may be — delayed dawnings get my goat all right. For when the aha! moment comes, like the knowledge of a pass made after the bird’s left her perch, it never fails to prune your pride.