The Red Suitcase

I am on a cleaning spree. Actually it's more of a decluttering drive. Since the past few days I have been overtaken by the urge to clean out lofts, cupboards and any other space which I haven't dared venture into since a few years. When there are two adults, two kids and one dog in the house, it's incredible the amount of stuff that gets collected - almost by itself. It's as though things gravitate towards such households, making themselves invisible and fitting into whatever space available; until one day we open our eyes and see just how much stuff has accumulated.

My father once said, and it was probably the only sensible thing he ever told me, that things which haven't been used for over six months need to be chucked, because if you lived without it for six months, you can live without it forever!

Today morning I decided to tackle the garage. For fear of spiders and lizards (shudder), I enlisted the help of driver bhaiya and my nanny. For a few seconds after we opened the door, we just stood staring. It looked like a miniature version of a junkyard. Driver bhaiya jumped into action and started pulling out stuff while I watched from a safe distance. A huge spider scampered out; I could almost see the malevolent look it shot me for disturbing its cocoon. I took a few more steps back, just in case it decided to take revenge.

At the end of an hour, we had made neat piles of stuff to be thrown, given away and kept for future use. Among it all, fitting into none of the piles was a large red suitcase. I just couldn't remember what it contained. It looked frayed and worse for wear, with patches of red peeping through, as though to remind me what it once looked like. There was a small lock on it, which made me wonder what I would have wanted locked up. And that too in the garage! Obviously I had no idea where the key was, so a pair of pliers was produced and the lock broken. I almost felt the suitcase sighing with relief that it was going to be opened, probably after years. We lugged it up to our balcony where I sat down and proceeded to discover its contents.

Have you ever experienced being transported back in time by something you see or read or hear? That's what happened with me. As I took out one diary after another, I was suddenly 12 and 14 and 18 again. I had completely forgotten that I used to keep daily diaries. Pages and pages filled with mundane stuff, interspersed with an exciting event, perceived from the eyes of a teenager. The intensity of a first crush, the thrill of it being reciprocated. The joy of the first time I learned to drive; the indescribable feeling of having the car move under my control. The bitter disappointment of not getting the marks I wanted; the pleasure of being praised for an essay in class.

Our generation has the unique privilege (or curse!) of straddling two eras of time. One we are in currently, with smartphones and smart televisions and oversmart people around us. The other era, not so far back, of writing letters, exchanging Archies greeting cards and watching Rs. 7 movie tickets at PVR cinemas.

I found a packet filled with cards; there must have been a 100 of them. From friends, family and some blank ones which I must have bought to give on the right occasion. I found letters; earnest outpourings by friends, innocent love notes by classmates and some I had written but never had the courage to send. I found photographs; faded squares and rectangles of memories, the faces almost unrecognizable. In that red suitcase, I found pieces of how I had grown up, each item stirring a part of who I used to be; something buried under the layers of being a wife and mother.

My five year old daughter sat with me and exclaimed over the treasures. At one point she asked, "Mama why did people write letters, was there no email?" As I looked at her face I realised these children will never know so many things that were an integral part of our lives as kids. I showed her the cards- she had never seen a store bought one and was, fascinated! I showed her my diaries, filled with hopes and dreams and fears. I told her how things used to be simpler when I was growing up and we had fewer choices. I don't know how much her five year old brain processed but I could see her curiosity and fascination with the glimpses she had been given into another world.

After an hour we closed the red suitcase. I had transferred the stuff I wanted to keep into a smaller box. The now empty suitcase stood, looking more forlorn that ever, as though knowing that it's role of a keeper of memories was over.

My daughter came and slipped her hand into mine. "Mama, can you get me a diary? I want to write too. And can we please keep my diaries in this suitcase? "

I looked at the red suitcase and smiled. It seemed that some things would be passed onto the next generation.