Things & Tales

​I believe any given object is capable of telling a story. Like the pair of worn-out black flip-flops under the study table that I wear all the time. It has trodden several paths, been trampled upon, and tossed into filthy corners with other chappals, and what not. If inanimate objects could speak, I bet my flip flops would have quite a lot to say about its wild journey so far.

As I sit on this hard, bumpy bed in my room, I wonder about its story. And I think about all the other faceless girls who’ve stayed before me in this room and slept on this very bed. To many, it must’ve been their escape after a long day at work or in college. Or as it is for me, it must’ve been the dumping spot for their books, clothes and devices. They would’ve covered its bare maroon form with something pretty or something coarse. They’d have lied on it for hours at end, reliving their sorrows and joys, or dreaming about the things they wish would happen to them. They’d have sat on it through the night, trying to meet their deadlines as I am, right now. And when they left, they’d have forgotten all about their temporary haven and gone to shamelessly settle into a new one. This bed tells the stories of many girls and mine occupies a small part of it. 

I’ve always been fascinated by old cupboards and almirahs. There’s something exciting about the possibilities of what they might hold. In my head, they’re ancient treasure chests holding unimaginably intriguing objects—perhaps, old letters from a secret lover surreptitiously stashed behind drawers or photos of great-great-grandfathers that you didn’t know of or handmade works of art abandoned midway. In my earlier years, I did a fair amount of excavation in the old wooden built-in almirahs back in Chennai, every summer. I never knew what I was searching for, but nothing fascinated me more than stumbling upon an old black-and-white picture of my mum or a box with rusty needles, scissors, nail-cutters and wool or newspaper clippings from the 80s. They gave me a glimpse into the life my mum would’ve led back in her tiny town or her mother’s leisurely activities of stitching or my grandpa’s reading habits. Some years later, I’d search the wardrobes again and find the old clothes, pouches, books and toys of mine that I’d left in there a couple of years back, bringing about a jolt of nostalgia and longing for the days when I basked gleefully in my innocent oblivion. I like to pretend that my younger self essentially knew that I was going to return to the habit of digging through cupboards some years later and saved it for my own amusement. It’s been a while since those wardrobes have been raided, but I believe there’s a new story awaiting me the next time I open it.