An old, black and white framed photograph of a newlywed couple was left under a tree near the bathing ghat.
Someone had posted a photograph of the framed photo under the tree on Facebook wondering if anybody could recognize the couple who might have got married in the fifties or sixties when such photographs were in vogue. Perhaps, with the passing away of the lone surviving partner their progeny did not think it had the right to hang in that secluded corner of their home and left it under the tree. That brought to my mind my mother’s albums.
Among the family photographs, there is one particular album filled with photographs of my mother as a slim college girl in a saree with long pigtails along with her friends and hostel mates. I don’t recognize anyone other than my mother. Although I have held on to the album and its musty smell for the sake of my mother’s memories, I wonder what will happen to it, once I am gone. I wonder what kind of a burden I am leaving behind for my daughter. As someone who had the unenviable task of cleaning up and disposing of items, both after the death of my mother and later that of my mother-in-law, I know what might be a memory or a treasure for one would be junk for others. So, we had loads of new steel utensils, no doubt exchanged for old clothes after some intense haggling, for which we had no use in our small and modern kitchens. Finally, we donated it all to a community puja committee. But I must add the task of cleaning and disposing of, took the shape of an adventure akin to the California gold rush only because we found currency notes of various denominations under shelf liners, saree folds, and a variety of other unimaginable places. In my mother’s case, she was squirreling away money saved from household expenses for the rainy day while my mother-in-law, the family matriarch, was forgetful and often kept the cash tucked in various places for emergencies and then promptly forgot all about it. The currency notes that we managed to find were enough to fund a grand feast for her granddaughter’s fifth birthday celebrations.
As an avid crafter who loves to create things from waste and firmly believes in sustainability I have a habit of hoarding things, wooden spoons and chopsticks, buttons, bottles, cans, and jars – all with the hope I would be able to create something beautiful and useful with them in near future. I realized I might be genetically predisposed to be a pack rat only when my father shifted from his apartment in Kolkata to my flat in Hyderabad. My sister-in-law who unsuccessfully tried to dispose of the clutter herself finally gave in and called a kabariwala just to get rid of the junk that had been collected for four decades. She video-called me and I could see our old textbooks, school report cards, old transistors, radios, toasters, kadais, quilts, mattresses, and mosquito nets all coming out of the huge box underneath the bed. It seemed we, as a family, had never thrown out anything in our life.
A few years ago, I came across the concept of Swedish death cleaning. Although it sounds morbid it is quite practical. Once you reach middle age or sooner if you want, you get rid of all the things you have accumulated but you don’t need anymore. This would make sure that no one else has to do it when you are not there anymore. Moreover, there will be less of a mess and clutter in the bargain.
While I mulled over the benefits of the Swedish death cleaning concept, the most important being not leaving the task behind for those who survive you, I thought this would be a good process at the emotional level as well.
Why bear the burden of hurt, broken relationships, remnants of lost friendships in our lives? It would be better for our emotional health to scrub clean the hurt, anger, and pain that have piled up in our hearts leaving behind a mess and clutter. Wouldn’t it be better to mend those relationships that can be put together and throw out the ones that are permanently broken or beyond repair without any more remorse?
Perhaps, there might be a whole new beginning at the end.
By Anindita Chowdhury
Anindita Chowdhury is a special correspondent of the English daily, The Statesman. She is based in Hyderabad. Apart from reporting, she writes short stories and essays with special focus on history, particularly the social and cultural aspects of the bygone era. She can be contacted at aninditasmail@gmail.com.
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