I looked at the colourful lump oozing sticky tears from within a tiny plastic cover. With suspicious trepidation, I prodded it with a ruler–the fourth one I found in a matter of four minutes, some fourteen years after my children passed out of school!

I heaved a sigh of relief when I realized it was only a packet of rubber bands deciding to commit collective suicide by welding onto each other at the rampant neglect it received in my household. The packet joined the junk of discarded items, threatening to spill over the sack. I was preparing to move homes after a decade in the same place, and I had started with the shelf of least resistance–that is what I thought.

Last month, I had read a story where a character finds a trouville that fetches her millions when she cleans up her attic, and here I was sitting on a mound of old journals–the empty pages mocking my years of New Year’s resolutions. Shame-faced, I looked at a few that never lasted until the end of January. A few stopped much before that! Tearing off the few used pages (it would be nice to re-read them) and keeping them in a file to revisit later, I stopped short, holding a familiar folder with my favourite quotes. That too was for a revisit. I don’t remember the last time I read through the quotes. Resolute, I placed the diary atop a half-dozen more, planning to donate them to a worthy cause. After a pause, I removed two of them from the pile. It would be criminal to give away such lovely diaries made of handmade paper! So, I tossed them into the 12th carton that needed to be lugged to the new place.

Looking at another set of diaries with half-filled pages of recipes handed down by my mother and a dozen loose sheets of the same, I wondered if I should keep them. Most of the recipes were available online. Rifling through them with a smudge of turmeric and loads of teary attempts staining the pages, I was loath to let go. Maybe my daughter would use them and write a memoir someday, naming it, “From my grandmother’s kitchen!”

Moving homes is a nightmare for many. More so for a hoarder of one too many, like yours truly.

I started sorting out stuff from different cupboards a month earlier, picturing myself on top of things when the movers and packers came with their entourage. Yet, here I was, feeling far from sorted. Holding a bundle of string that was an indiscriminate shade of brown, I wondered why on earth I would buy this muddy shade. After a pause, I realized it must have been white to begin with. Could I still use it? After all, it was unused, rather untouched, but looking at my dusty hands, I had to accept that it couldn’t be salvaged. It joined the others in the sack, doubtless adding a dirge of its own.

Then came the pilferage section- the little bottles of moisturizers, shampoos, conditioners, and body wash taken with deft hands from the hotels we stayed in. Before you get me wrong, I leave the towels and bedsheets be!

Looking at the pile, I realized I had kept them in the “to-be-used drawer.” Tossing away those little bottles, most of them much past their use-by date, I wondered why I didn’t use them in the hotel instead of channelling my inner kleptomaniac.

Shamefaced, I realized that I hadn’t even started with my clothes. Rearranging closet space is something I do regularly. So, it shouldn’t be that difficult, should it?

Each month, after spending the better part of a day searching for matching blouses for my saris or a stole for my dress, I would fortify myself with a cup of tea and get down to organizing my wardrobe. I started by organizing the clothes into three neat piles.

The first pile was for those dresses I fit into in my previous slimmer avatar. The second pile was for regular clothes, and the third for brand-new items—some with their tags still attached. I stuffed the first and third back into the overburdened wardrobe, fully aware that I would need another birth to fit into the former, and that the latter was just a series of impulse purchases.

Except for a measly pair of leggings, I would keep the second lot back in the overburdened wardrobe and pull out faded pyjamas to lounge in for the rest of the day. Marie Kondo was not for me! Everything gave me joy.

Bringing my mind back to the present and taking deep breaths before anxiety overpowered me, I took in the shelves of books. This would be a far easier option, I told myself with relief. Ten years ago, when we had moved into this house, I recollected heaving a sigh of relief when I used a knife to rip open the packing wrap around the last few cartons of books. We moved into this house after our kids had flown the nest. I remembered handing over the books to my husband with a brief instruction: “I will give you the books. Just keep them on the shelf above the computer. I will do the sorting later.”

As I handed over the first batch, I recollected his aghast reaction: “You mean to say you lugged all these ancient Reader’s Digests from there to here?”

“What do you mean? How could I throw them away?” I said, equally horrified but from a different angle. “They are my father’s and a collector’s pride. Moreover, I would like to revisit some of them.”

“Ha!” he snorted. “Revisit indeed! Remember the shelf in the drawing room? You have kept all the ‘To Be Read’ pile. I am not sure we have that many years on Earth left.”

“Yes, yes,” I told airily, dismissing his words with a hand. “Those are the ‘not-read-yet’ pile. But these are the ‘read, but to re-read pile.”

“I honestly don’t understand you. We did decide to pare down our possessions, remember? And on top of that, I can’t take you anywhere near the bookshops.”

“Books are exceptions to the rule!”

“It only included my cassette collection, is it?” he growled, his eyes narrowing with comprehension.

Guilty, but standing my ground, I countered, “Who listens to cassettes these days when Spotify plays all the songs?”

“Ha! Who reads physical books when Kindle and other devices are there?”

“Nothing like a print book to cuddle with before going to sleep,” I told him smartly. “Take that one out, the fourth book on that last pile. I want to read it. I will keep it by the bedside.”

“You will do nothing of that sort! You already have three books, a Kindle, and an iPad by the bedside. At this rate, we might have to sleep on the floor,” he said darkly. “You fell asleep yesterday with a book on my side of the bed, and the damn book was pressing into my back throughout the night.”

“You only have to remove it and place it back.”

I had quickly made my way out of the room as his face darkened. Now, looking at the shelves, I hadn’t touched the Reader’s Digest for the last ten years, except for an article or two in a couple of them. Other books had taken precedence, and the bedside table was still piled high with new purchases. I stood on a step stool to reach the top shelf. I had the 13th carton open only for those books that I would definitely need. Maybe it is time to throw the doors of my house open to pre-loved books and invite neighbours and friends to help themselves. I cannot afford to take them to the new place now that we are downsizing further.

Resolute, I took the first pile down. I rifled through them…and added them to the carton that needed to be taken to the new house. I will get to them this time once I settle down, I told myself. Besides, who throws away books?

Maybe I can free up some shelf space now that my husband has retired and won’t need as many clothes anymore.

Ignorant of my line of thought, he entered the room to give me a hand.

His eyes narrowed, and mine studiously averted as I placed the Reader’s Digest–my father’s pride–lovingly into the 15th carton, but not before pointing out the overflowing sack of things that I was truly disposing of this time!

If you like this, do stop by my post on baggage of memories

This was first published in The Hooghly Review. 

Image credit: ChatGpt

This blog is sprinting its way to the finish line with Piyush’s Plotters as part of The Blogchatter Half Marathon!