The cartons of memories
BEING in the civil services is akin to living as a nomad, with transfers arriving unannounced. With little time to pack, this resulted in papers, clothes, toys, crockery, et al being hastily thrown into cartons, with a vague promise to myself to sort them ‘when I had more time’. Of course, ‘more time’ never materialised, with two boys and a job that often demanded burning the midnight oil.
As each new house seemed to shrink in size, these cartons became permanent residents of storage rooms, multiplying like rabbits. Each one stood as a testament to a life devoted to service — both to the country and to my family. But now superannuated, it is time for me to confront the accumulated debris.
As I begin to sift through the mountain of paper, toys and clothes of every size imaginable, a musty odour greets me each time I open a carton. That smell is the fragrance of memories, with each item serving as a time capsule, transporting me back to the moment when they were first packed away.
‘Let go, mom,’ my sons insist. The elder one suggests that I adopt the ‘Kon Mari’ method. ‘Choose what sparks joy,’ he advises me. ‘That way, you will surround yourself with what you love.’
I survey my decades’ worth of sentimental clutter. My wedding lehenga, glowing with memories of that day. My boys’ baby clothes, still carrying the scent of baby powder and dreams. How on earth am I supposed to let go? My younger son has a practical approach. ‘Just bin everything,’ he says, ‘or give it away — let it spark joy for someone else.’
I try, I really do. But at the end of the day, the pile of giveaways is woefully small, and the ‘bin’ pile barely exists. Each item I pick up tugs at my heartstrings, evoking memories of a time when aspirations were big, and the budget was too small to accommodate them. How can I part with these pieces of my past, each one infused with a fragment of my dreams?
And then, in the midst of my struggle, I find guidance in the pages of Sri Guru Granth Sahib. Its repeated emphasis on evolving beyond the material to the spiritual, on understanding that nothing will accompany us when we finish our earthly sojourn, offers a perspective I hadn’t considered. The thought of someone else binning all that I love, after I’m gone, makes me pause.
Suddenly, it becomes a little easier to tear myself away from these cartons of things. Instead, I begin to identify recipients who would truly cherish these things, so they can spark joy in a new home. It’s not easy, but I do it with a little less weight — both in the cartons and on my heart. Because in the end, it’s the memories we carry with us, not the things, that truly define our journey, long after these cartons have been unpacked.
