“We need a new
show-case,” I said to Sri Husband.
“?” wordless
question from him. It involves raising one eyebrow, pursing lips and generally
scowling. I can make out when it involves a bad mood. Quite often, actually.
“The present
one is over-flowing.”
“??” Second
eyebrow joined the first, chin and cheeks confirmed the scowl, mood worse.
Me, now
treading with carefully selected vocabulary: “I tried to fit in the crystal
Hanuman and the frame Billy gave us but…”
Before I could
finish the sentence, the eyebrows hit the forehead and the growl that was being
civilly suppressed in the throat exploded into something. I could make out “…
is made of plastic, not crystal… and …frame can be kept after throwing out… all
useless things.”
I waited until
Sri Husband’s cheer (too strong a word, but there isn’t a milder one) was
rebooted after a brisk walk and a bout of pranayama. A bowl of raw carrot juliennes with cucumber
cubes and a fistful of sprouted pulses did the trick. Washed down with no-milk
no-sugar herbal tea. (Yuck, I say, but not to him.)
Then I
rephrased sentence one with a sigh: “So many curios, so little space.”
Wrong timing,
wrong choice of words. This time the brows, chin, cheeks and lips stayed put.
That kind of silence means Awful Mood. Very different from the Awesome we use
on fb.
He opened the
glass door of that inherited-from-the-in-laws cupboard and one by one removed
all that was inside, shelf-wise, item-wise.
After several “chuck this” and “throw
that,” I got into the fray, albeit mildly, because he was tossing valuable
things into the dustbin.
Me: “I got that trophy for the Best
Bakeress 1999.” “That mug with the photograph shows our ‘baba’ winning the first
prize in his first tricycle race.” “Your office gave you that ‘mubaarak
ho’ spectacles case on your fortieth birthday.”
Sri Husband’s responses: “You were
the only entrant in that Bakeress competition.” “Our ‘baba’ is now a grown man
who has told you many times to grow a money-plant in that chipped mug or donate
it to a beggar.” “Spectacle cases are for casing ‘occlan’ not to preserve
for posterity.”
Me: “That pen-stand is a reminder
from Himmy’s first wedding anniversary. Can’t throw it.”
He: “Give it back to him.”
Me: “That curio is a piece of art,
see Mother Mary’s expression.”
He: “We’ve got twenty-nine Mother
Marys with the same expression, in metal frames, on ceramic plates, embossed in
glass, painted in water-colours, holding Baby Jesus, looking heavenward… and
another twenty-nine Ganeshas, reclining, standing, dancing, embroidered on
jute, knitted in wool, on playing-cards…we can do without all of them.”
Me, hurriedly, tidily, putting back
all that he was taking out: “See, if I adjust a little, maybe we won’t need another
show-case after all.”
He, bashing on regardless: “That
plastic doll doesn’t need to be show-cased. Or those beermats or… what are
these… peacocks made with buttons?”
Loftily I told him: “They are keepsakes,
reminders of our life’s events. The plastic doll is my niece’s. She’s gone away
after marriage, no? I think of her when I see it. Those coasters we got at the
Annual Function of the Club of the Evergreeners.”
“Why didn’t they distribute plants
instead?”
I ignored that: “… the peacocks are hand-crafted
by under-privileged women…”
“Can someone not teach them to make
useful things like paper-bags?”
Me: “You can’t recognize a work of
art if someone thrusts it in your face.”
He, shoving a two-foot object towards
me: “Is this a work of art? This map of India dressed like a goddess?”
Me: “That’s a present from the
Country-Lovers’ Club. All invitees were given one.”
He:
“What a nightmare, fifty such tri-colour-clad Mother Indias standing in
people’s show-cases.”
Me, hastily replacing that with a smaller
article, a laser-worked, angular, crystal-glass vase.
He, suspiciously squinting at it,
read: “In fond memory of Dolly’s seventieth birthday. Who’s Dolly? And why is a
seventy-year-old called ‘Dolly’?” Then he did something I was hoping he
wouldn’t: he turned it around and discovered that it read the same thing no
matter how you held the vase. From every side, including up and down, the ‘fond
memory’ showed. Truly, I thought, a piece of art. Then he picked at a label:
“Made in China” it said.
Awkward silence because we were
carefully preserving mass-produced made-elsewhere articles. Amongst others, we
found one mini-umbrella with battery operated fan, one stuffed toy that rotated
its beady eyes when turned, one talking camera and a key-chain-cum-torch.
“Why are these things in a
show-case?” Sri Husband wanted to know. Am sure that question was heard all the
way to the Coqueiro Circle at Porvorim. Further yelling included: “Either use
them, or gift them away or trash them.”
Sri Husband saw me relocating the
non-digital clock with finger-hands that crawled over tinsel ‘hours’, the
lovely calendars from yesteryears and said to me: “Next time someone gives you
a memento for talking/writing/attending function/festival or any reason at all,
tell them to give you a plant or a medal. No shawls. Coconuts are ok.”
“Ok-ok,” I said hastily, buying
temporary peace. “ok-ok.”
Later I thought, good idea, actually,
less dusting to do.
Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in
