A cupboard full of memories

Ritu Kumar 

The journey of an object through history is a chequered one. I realised this as I stood in front of the house where I was born and spent my formative years. I could see myself dancing in the courtyard with my siblings, amazed at my odd dance steps and shrill singing. The house in a nondescript place, Nilokheri, had not changed much, except now it looked modern with white-washed walls, iron gate and a shining nameplate. But my story is not about the house, it is the inhabitants. Then, urban migration took place and we shifted to Ambala. Unlike the infamous societal ‘meta-son’ preference, my father made it a point to educate and make us economically independent.

Life in parental homes is often steeped in memories, history, geography and family dynamics. They become particularly poignant once you lose a parent. The clearing up of the almirah of the departed soul is silent and often sober, but not always a sad rite of passage. This enterprise can throw up an object or two that you bought for your parent or your parent gave you. In my mother’s  purse, I found a crisp Rs 100 note. She had five, given to her by her brother. We both sisters wanted to have, so she gave two to each of us and kept one as a memory for herself. Those notes adorn my ‘temple box’, my treasure trove. When I touch the notes, it makes me feel as if it was only yesterday.  

Another remembrance is the first salary given in an envelope to my mother. The first salary gift to parents is a heady concoction of pride, gratitude, and financial independence. The envelope, tucked in her clothes, brought many memories alive. I also found a sari bought from my first salary (a princely sum of Rs 2,850). Wearing a khadi sari with a traditional border was seen by my mother’s generation as sophisticated, and if a daughter gave it from her first pay, the entire thing took on a more ‘sophi-cosmo’ air.  That sari still is with me. All other georgette and cotton stuff seems to be in envy of it. 

Another priceless petal in my bouquet of collection is her handwritten poems  given on our birthdays or attaining laurels. Now, I recall how special that sari had been for my mother. She must have worn it on special occasions, enjoyed the feel and told everyone with pride that it has come from her daughter’s first salary.

These objects took me back to my first salary, a doorway for me to a whole world of precious memories. Anchoring memories present a sense of continuity, especially after the death of a loved one. The sari, the first salary, hundred rupee notes have become imbued with essence of all other things we shared together. How the gifts have come to full circle — a literal display of magical moments.