(5 Nov ’06)
In the building where I
was born and nurtured, in Mumbai, most families had minimum furniture. A couple
of folding metal-pipe chairs, a table or two, and a show-case in the ‘hall’
(what a lavish word for the room near the entrance). Clothes that didn’t fit
into the cupboards were hung on pegs. The patriarch slept on the single bed,
the rest of the family spread the mattresses for the night, then bundled them
up against a wall in the daytime. The room with the maximum number of things
was the kitchen, and even that was bare compared to the ones I see these days.
People whitewashed their walls occasionally, without fuss.
My husband had a
frequently transferable job. The geographical conditions all over the country
required us to have woollies, light summerwear, heavy raincoats, etc. I
scrupulously and carefully made sure I bought only stuff I could use. Anything
that would involve dusting, I avoided. Anything I hadn’t used for two years, I
discarded. I didn’t fall prey to ‘shopping’, no matter how tempting: glassware
from Faridabad, dhurries from Jodhpur, furniture from Bareilly, saris from the
south, I saw them all at ‘source’, where they were available at a fraction of
the price in cities. I preferred to follow the principle of KISS (keep it
simple, stupid). I was still not as simple as a very senior couple I knew. They
didn’t even possess the mandatory trunks and wooden boxes….they bought cheap
cardboard cartons each time they had to move, wrapped the few things they owned
in newspaper and tied the parcels with coconut coir ropes. Then, too, walls of
those government quarters were whitewashed, usually between inhabitants, so it
wasn’t such a headache.
Even in Goa, where we
were eventually to settle, I made sure I had no ‘store’ to keep unnecessary
items. Lofts and stores, I felt, had more nuisance than utility value. My
shopping in Goa was still restricted to crises-oriented shopping. If I ran out
of something, I bought it. Or if I felt the need sorely enough. Gifts were
almost always recycled. It’s the thought that matters anyway, I figured.
Painting the flat wasn’t as much of a nuisance there, either.
Then my life changed. I
moved to Mumbai.
By the standards of the
megapolis, I still live an uncomplicated life. But a recent bout of
painting-polishing-carpentry has brought home to me how far removed it is from
what it was. I have things kept for ‘in case guests come’. Things with
‘sentimental value’. Things which ‘would cost so much if one were to buy them
now’. Which meant that when the painter
came in, we had to adjust casual leaves, weekends, tables, footwear, cupboards,
sofas, speakers (we have 8 of them; considering there are two ears per person
and four persons in the house, you know why), books, more books, many more
books, cassettes, crockery (NEVER used), clothes, curios, albums….how did all
this come into my life?
This painting episode
has been a good thinking experience. Looking at the mounds of stuff covered
with old sheets and curtains, I thought, when I owned little, I really had more
time to read and muse. Little of what I now dust, re-arrange, search for and
waste time on, has been bought by me. Much has been inherited, some bought by
others because ‘Sheela MUST have this’. There are those who thrive on
acquisitions, who take pride in ‘look-what-I-have’. I’m not amongst them. I
hope that the next time I have to paint the house, if I don’t have less stuff,
I haven’t increased any. Am putting it down in writing as a Diwali resolution.
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