Attachment is never good, according to a whole lot of Hindu scriptures. Especially, the attachment of the material kind. I realize, that I suffer from this, acutely. I am convinced that it is a useless pursuit, so transient'., and yet, knowledge and imbibing are two different things. I am not all that evil if you know my kind of attachments. Now-a-days, my world revolves around my husband and a teenaged daughter at home and it's the confrontations with them that make me introspect in this vein.
Cleaning some part or thing at home means "discarding" to my husband. Given a chance he will not let cleaning and clearing as two different entities in the Oxford dictionary or any of its equivalents.
The other day, I misplaced our car key and the husband was bent on finding it'in my cup-board! It is my "closet"'what a mysterious word that is'what kind of images does it evoke..! It's my space. But, that day belonged to him, as the key had to be found, and every space had to be invaded. Power goes down helplessly when memory fails! That's what happened to me or he would never get to look into my cup-board.
Now there he was pulling out everything that he flippantly termed "trash". My mind immediately coined a new maxim for posterity'"one man's trash is another man's treasure!". I smiled. Happy at the thought that in the pursuit of satisfying man's base needs in the kitchen, the copywriter in me wasn't all dead, you see. My sojourn was interrupted literally by a thud. "And what is this thing doing here?" my husband asked, rather disgustedly, as he threw out the thing. The most delicate looking polythene bag, in the exact shade of a violet, a lavender, a part of a gift from Jessi, my classmate who went away to London. Inside it was her letter---"London is the best place under the sun for walking, and while I walk, I think of you all and miss Hyderabad so much", she had written .
My husband was still hunting for the elusive key. Meanwhile, he confronted me with another packet. "I don't think you've ever worn this, you will never do so now. Why don't you just give it to our poor maid?" His generous mood was inspired by my white georgette sari with shadow work done by none other than, yours truly! That was many years ago, in the company of an influential neighbor, who believed that every woman should take to the needle some time or the other. "Vow... you did that", exclaimed my daughter'and years of keeping it was worth it.
"Papers, notes, what all do you'"I didn't let him complete "there's the key" I said. He took it , relieved and dropped the papers down, but continued "just throw out all this junk and get some order there." He walked out of the room leaving me with the " junk".
In the midst of it all, I recognized Nirmal's stylish hand and signature, the note which came along with his gift for my wedding "How many hearts will you break today!?! All the best!" Another card had this : "one of the few for whom everyone wish the best!" and when it's from Nalini, I believe it! "Can't imagine you being married'.I still remember you in our school uniform waiting for your Dad"
Peter had written.
My daughter entered the room. I pack them all again into a bundle. "You are not throwing it?" she wanted to know. "Some other time," I had replied.
It is indeed a mess inside my cup-board'shells, old pens, diaries, sepia tainted photographs, key chains, letters, cards '.each thing which has a story to tell me, memories to revive. I don't know what it is to be depressed because I have them. They are a source of perennial joy, to say the least.
When they advocated "don't be attached", the seers must have meant pots of gold and wads of currency notes. Not my humble belongings. I shall never throw them out.
Any complaint from the husband, if at all another confrontation happens, can easily be over ruled. Because, my list of complaints about him, at any given time, can always out do his.