Shri Husband
and I used to, years ago, shift house by carrying our luggage on a motorized two-wheeler.
Actually that should read ‘houses’ because we’ve done it many, many times. What
we owned fitted into a couple of cardboard cartons tied up with coir rope.
Duct-tapes were a luxury… actually I don’t know whether they existed then.
Later, as we accumulated linen to wrap precious crockery in, we bought
ourselves tin trunks. Which could be locked. One odd trunk was relegated to a
corner of the new home’s living area, blankets were folded to fit its top
dimensions, the newest of the above-mentioned linen was used to cover it and
voila, we called it ‘sofa’. A couple of small trunks standing shoulder to
shoulder in three lines with a sheet-covered mattress on them became a bed.
The kitchen got operational
immediately, for eating out wasn’t possible in the remote areas we lived in. In
some places, even bread was unheard of. The only vegetables were seasonal,
regional and available at a weekly bazar, unless you grew them yourself. I’ve
no idea whether the bought ones contained DDT or some other poison. Ignorance
was bliss.
Running water was available only as
and when electricity ran through the knotted and sparking tangle of overhead wires.
It went without warning and came unexpectedly. Kept us alert through all our
waking hours. One of the first things most newly-weds invested in was a ‘mosquito-net’.
We did so, too. It provided security for the photo-frames that joined us in our
transfers. Bubble-wrap plastic-sheets were a figment of some scientist’s
imagination then.
Until we got a
gas-connection, a wick-stove ruled our lives. A beer bottleful of kerosene
sufficed for a meal for 3-4 people. The pressure-cooker could be converted into
an oven by removing the weight/whistle and rubber gasket from the lid, and
putting sand in place of water to uniformly distribute the dry heat for baking.
Not surprisingly, the contents of our kitchen, including half-a-dozen plates
with matching tumblers, serving implements and spoons, fitted into a single
trunk.
Moving house
became complicated after we bought a fridge. After packing its shelves and
dividers separately, its insides were stuffed with old clothes and the spare spaces
with books, shoes and curios. The outside was covered with thin mattresses,
firmly tied in place. The whole rigmarole of shoving it into a crate and
loading it onto a tempo has given me sturdy knees, elbows and shoulders.
Gymnasiums—or gyms as they’re better known nowadays—were for gymnasts, in
schools, colleges and some other institutions, not for the common junta like us.
From two-wheeler transportation, we graduated to hiring tempos and making lists.
Losing luggage, or its late arrival was a matter of great concern in the days
before mobile phones and websites could track its movement.
Every transfer
brought new adventures. Moving house by train involved carrying winter/summer
foods along. And attire according to the temperatures to be encountered.
Coolers and heaters, unknown here in Goa, were additions to our ever-growing
‘saamaan’. Came the Asian Games 1982, and a television was added as companion
to our smuggled two-in-one (these 2-in1s are now never heard of, like the
record-players; but they brought music into our homes, quite a revolutionary
thing at the time). We learned to never discard cartons. Toasters, OTGs,
non-stick-ware, mixers, glass stuff… were safest in their original
packaging.
A big
advantage of frequent moves is that one throws away what one doesn’t need.
Cracked and repaired garden pipes, faded buckets, outgrown shoes, hated
nighties, rusty tins, greeting cards, silly gifts that one didn’t want but didn’t
know what to do with, and sundry other stuff was thrown away. We lived feng
shui and vastu philosophy without being believers. There was heartbreak
involved when it came to parting with plants and books.
Each home had
its own quirks. Memories include leaking external pipes that made walls damp;
these gave mild electrical shocks when touched because the wiring wasn’t safely
ensconced either. We entertained ourselves by ‘giving current’ to ourselves
(silly youthful behaviour). Inconvenient doors, no place to dry clothes,
shortage of shelves, bathrooms so big one could convert them into a
Mumbai-sized flat, kitchens so tiny that one had to enter sideways and stand on
one foot to fit in (ok, here I’m exaggerating), taps that sang/groaned when
water flowed through them, neighbours who disliked the afore-mentioned
groaning/singing taps, etc.
Until my
parents’ generation, one could live a lifetime in the same rented house. The
11-month lease was unknown. With the law taking the tenants’ side and
horror-stories of them un-vacating premises, house-owners nowadays seldom
permit long occupation. Therefore frequent moving house(s) is not restricted to
those with transferable jobs.
A sense of
no-rootedness gives one a feeling of belonging to the planet, not a particular
neighbourhood. The words ‘Vasudaiva kutumbakam’ make sense: one treats the
world as family.
With ‘no time’
to spare these days, the packing, like many other services, is outsourced to
professionals. The hand-crushed balls of old newspapers that buffered fragile
items against inevitable rough handling have been replaced by shredded stuff,
rolls of brown, corrugated sheets of paper and
bubble-wrap. Strange fingers handle familiar utensils. Discarding isn’t easily
done, yet the trash-can overflows. How do people accumulate so much stuff, I
wonder aloud. Bai Goanna says: “Over the years, no, naturally.”
I retort: “I
think we should move house now. It’s a good exercise in getting rid of the junk
we don’t use and hoard.”
I’m not sure,
but I think Shri Husband mumbled “amen” before he walked out.
Feedback:
sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in
