Salvaging love from clutter

THE first signs of autumn always make me pensive. The varying colours of the landscape and the subtle changes in the air generate a feeling of sweet lethargy and nostalgia. One of the big challenges of autumn is making the house "winter friendly." Each year I go through the ritual of putting away the many summer items which we will not use for the next few months. On the other hand the quilts, coats and warm clothing need to be unpacked in preparation for the winter.
Last week, while emptying out the closets, I stumbled upon an old family album, with frayed corners and faded cover. Given the "modern" trend of sharing photos online, albums have now become virtually obsolete. However, out of sheer curiosity I opened the album, which was one of the few things that I had preserved from my parents' home. The sepia coloured, familiar faces stared back at me in silent disapproval. It seemed they were reprimanding me for the callous negligence of an object that was once a household treasure, proudly displayed to many a visitor!
I remembered my father's passion for photography: he never missed an opportunity to capture the memories of our vacations with the help of his Nikon camera. They were happy times spent together, not at exotic destinations like the Champs Elysee or the Venetian canals, but in the inner recesses of the Sunderbans and on the pristine shores of Cox's Bazaar. At one point our spare bedroom was converted into a darkroom for developing photos. It held such a mysterious aura that my sister Sonia and I would sometimes tiptoe into it imagining that we had entered the dark world of ogres and monsters!
As I examined the photographs, my memory traveled through the tunnel of time and my eyes welled up with tears. Instantly I connected not just to the people in the photos but to the familiar objects visible in the blurry background. I recognised the Persian miniature painting acquired by my father on his official trip to Tehran in the '60s. It was a gift to my mother who was an art lover. The ceramic vase on the brass table peeping through a group picture was my mother's favourite. I remember how she carefully dusted it each morning. These were not just artifacts, they represented memories built around their acquisition and preservation.
The pictures opened up a floodgate of emotions and I realised, with regret, that I had given away most of the stuff that my parents had lovingly accumulated in their life because there was no space for them in my life. Like many of my generation I believe that a home must have the right theme and décor with every room structured and organised. Whatever didn't fit the "plan" had to be disposed off!
Leafing through the pages of the album I found a memorable family photo. We were happy and relaxed, sitting on an old-fashioned sofa in what we called our "multipurpose room." The room, with a shelf full of books, magazines and albums, easy cane chairs, a TV in the corner, even an ironing table, would today be considered as "cluttered." In terms of décor it was the least attractive room in the house. But this was where we spent many joyful afternoons and evenings. My father would occasionally pick up a book from the shelf and read out a passage to lure us into reading it. Sometimes my mother would open an album and point to a photograph to recount the happy times we had spent together.
As I look around my home in Virginia, I notice that I have taken meticulous care to make sure that everything is well coordinated and organised. We, too, have memories attached to the many objects we have acquired. But there is nothing here to spread the warmth of my parents' loving caress or the wisdom of their intellectual insights. Why didn't I preserve my mother's favourite vase or my father's personal copy of Robert Frost's poems with his hand-written notes?
Thinking of the future, I was suddenly overcome with a strange feeling of sadness. Someday, our children, too, would be sorting out and jettisoning the things that we have collected over time. Perhaps this is the cycle of life, and that is how it's meant to be. Tastes change and material objects gradually lose their relevance. But I hope our kids will be wiser and retain a few things that will help them establish a loving connection with their parents when we are gone! For things are only things -- but they can become much more when they tell a story of love.

The writer is a renowned Rabidra Sangeet exponent and a former employee of the World Bank. E-mail: [email protected]