Memories memoir

I remember not forgiving my mother for months when one winter evening in the hills, she gave my green woolen skirt to a woman to cover her child. I had argued, “Did you not find anything else worth giving in the entire house?” Though, I had outgrown and didn’t wear that skirt, but still countered that it was my favorite. Eventually, I grew up being emotionally attached to all sorts of things, right from little teddy bear key rings to soft toys and certain clothes et al. But with passing years, it became difficult to mother so many things that had emotional value attached to them, and what worse, I had no choice.

 I couldn’t have abandoned the bundle of greeting cards where my once best-friend-turned-foe had zillions times written ‘I love you’, or couldn’t have thrown the wrapper of the chocolate that my first boyfriend gave me. Years passed and the stuff righteously booked most of the space of the two closets I had. My mother did try to sermon me about hoarding things, but all in vain, and it resulted in the fact that when I got married, I had two suitcases with stuff that dated back to my school and college. The spotted black duppata that I wore in my first year of college is still lying in one of the briefcases. That duppata goes with none of the suits I have, and it’s over some fourteen years that I haven’t worn it.

Queer case of spotted black duppatta

History: Once, I thought of giving it to the maid but then I have some beautiful memories attached to it. And the memories are; I wore it five out of six days to the college ‘miss-matching’ it with every suit; Most of the times when I bunked classes with the group of my friends, I was wearing this duppatta.; my boyfriend always told me that I looked really beautiful in it.

Today: All the suits with which the said duppatta was worn are officially dead. The group of friends who witnessed the rise of the spotted duppatta is on Earth, Pluto or Mars no one knows. The boyfriend who loved the duppatta in question was dumped the same year. So, basically everything moved on in life but the poor spotted duppatta that became the martyr in the name of memories.

Incidentally, things changed when we shifted to a rented accommodation in Delhi. There was either space for my present clothes and other stuff or the ‘suitcases filled with memories’. I began sorting out the things which held the least emotional value for me. At first, I gave away hundreds of cards to raddiwaala for which I got 40 bucks. I used that money to put mehndi on my hand. I saw my mehndi colored hand and thought, “Not a bad bargain for pseudo memories, and then followed the getting-ridding-away of memories phase. 

Sometimes, I sold my ‘pseudo memories’ for money and at other times for convenience, or for the feeling that philanthropy brings. But in the process, I learnt that most of the times we connect memories to tangible things than to people. We get over people, but not the little things those were the props of the scene back then, and hoard sundry material items in the name of preserving memories for decades and decades.

Now, I realize that moments make memories. I have stopped piling things, but there are still one or two things I am finding a suitable recipient for, and black spotted duppatta tops the list.

I am redeeming myself and I swear, now, I don’t hoard stuff to keep memories alive, it’s just for philanthropy.

Chetna