Material memory

What does it feel like to hold on to things

Hello,

I spent a good part of October trying to write. And by that I mean I spent long hours with myself, writing some, scrapping most. With self imposed discipline that helped moor the unanchored self, even if only in short bursts. Basically I tormented myself without emerging victorious on the other side.

But I’m glad I did it, for whatever it was worth.

For this newsletter I thought I’ll share something that I had written earlier this year. I happened to discuss something related to this with a friend and I thought it might be nice to share it with a few more people.

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When I was about 7 or 8 years old, my mother took me to a house where they were giving away used clothes and other items for a price. Clothes were displayed on tables in a couple of rooms. In another, cutlery. I guess there were other items on sale too but I can only recall these two. I don't remember much about the house and I never got to know about its owners until recently. I don't really remember picking out the clothes either but I remember that there were other people in the house, walking between rooms, going through things that once belonged to somebody else.

Thinking about it now, I'm reminded of Ray Carver's short story 'Why don’t you dance'. Of how someone's life was laid out for picking by strangers. Of how things that once belonged to somebody were now lying still. Of how there was no way of knowing their story. 

Penelope by Charles-François Marchal (1868)

Thrift stores are common today but in the early 90s the idea seemed very new. Quite smart even. Hand-me-downs are different altogether. You know its owner and probably get to know a little bit of its story as well. Most times they're practical, sometimes they're obligatory. But when you buy used clothes, there's an invisible connection between strangers. Something that only the shared piece of item - the was and is - can know. 

That day we bought home quite a haul, I remember. My mother also got some china — cups without saucers, soup bowls in odd pairs, a few glassware maybe. The clothes were mainly for me but my mother might have picked up a few sarees? She has no recollection of them and I never really paid any attention to what she got.

I do not remember picking up any of the clothes from that house during that sale. I only remember wearing them so many times, every alternate day at some point, that they rarely had the opportunity of seeing the inside of a cupboard.

A white broderie anglaise sleeveless button-me-down that fell just below my knees, with a deep V neck and strings to tie at the back.

A creamy dress, also of same length with some sort of pulled impressions running down the length of it and this one has special buttons made to look like bats and balls. I remember holding on to a baseball bat button for many years after the dress itself vanished from my life.

A stripped, long-sleeved tee that I often wore as a t-shirt dress.

A coord capri and shirt in beige that I dubbed as the elephant pants. It had peter-pan collars and the capri pants ended in ruffles.

A white linen long-sleeved tunic top that I own to this day.

I also came into possession a short sleeved ribbed swimsuit in black. This, I often wore as a t-shirt, pinned under my shorts or skirts simply because I rarely got the opportunity to put it to proper use.

I distinctly remember these outfits simply because they were some of the best I owned growing up. Not that my parents never got me new clothes. In fact, my father disliked us getting hand-me-downs and he took special interest in shopping clothes for us. Yet, this particular collection of thrifted clothes became dearest to me.   

Every evening after school, I would change into one of these. The dresses I wore the most.

I also came own a black wrap-around skirt, made out of the most beautiful black fabric you could have ever seen. It had brown and red autumn leaves, some falling down the length and most gathered around the hem. A kind of a satiny fabric that literally fell in swathes of silky black. This skirt once belonged to my father's niece and it was given to me by her mother, and I think without the former's knowledge. I do not think that she would have ever disagreed but I am forever thankful for that gift. I first began wearing it as a full length skirt, then it became ankle length, then calf length. I still own it. It does not wrap around my now wider hips as it once did. The skirt reminds me of so many things at once. I wore it every other day, I wore it fresh off the clothe's line. I wore it with a black top. I ran in it, I jumped across walls, I slept in it. After me, my sister wore it. Almost with the same fervour, if not slightly lesser (I'd like to think so). The skirt, to think of it now, has remained indestructible. It has no tears, no fade, not even a hole. It remains. We both love it but I hope to be buried in it.  

My point of sharing all these intimate details, dear reader, comes now. The act of giving up possessions has always baffled me. I’ve always been unable to part with materials. I simply cannot find it within myself to give something up, even if it is a small piece of eraser. I say eraser because there’s a story there too. I still have with me one such eraser that I found outside my school when I was probably in class 3 or 4. I've given it a story, formed a sentimental connection with it, thereby giving it life of its own. A name, a place, a story.  The eraser, when I look at it, will conjure my younger self, bending down on the middle of the road outside my school gate on a hot afternoon. The eraser, a bright florescent yellow with pink heart on its sides. It was used no doubt and I remember thinking to myself, oh how much the owner must miss this pretty eraser, I must keep it. For safekeeping I told myself. Safe it still is with me, a dull yellow, the pink barely visible and definitely not soft. 

I don’t think I’ve changed entirely now but I am aware of this feeling.

As silly as it may sound, I was struck while watching a thriller web series. In it, a woman is so besotted with her possessions, her gorgeous dresses and jewellery that after she suddenly falls ill and dies, her soul enters the trunk in which they are stored and lies waiting. A curse she becomes, wanting to destroy anyone trying to touch her belongings. That's extreme and I (obviously) don't wish to become that person. But giving up, giving away is for later.

I know that they’ve already given it names — minimal, zen, material detoxing, decluttering, art of letting go… But all that can come later. Not for now, thanks. For now I will hold on to as much as I can. Maybe let go now and then.

I've got sentiments over money plant growing in my house, a silver crayon that my chrismom left as a clue on my table many many years ago, a cork from the anniversary champagne that was enjoyed well before the wedding date, a box of make-up powder that I purchased during my wedding and just until last month, until I very reluctantly forced myself, I owned a bottle of body wash from six years ago simply because the smell reminded me of the time I got married, of the feeling of living with someone completely new. 

Burn me with every thing I own. 
The skirt, the dresses, the eraser. 
Throw in the matchbox 
That I've been carrying in my purse 
since twenty thirteen too.

Or don't.
Give them away.
Leave them 
Outside
For strangers to pick through.
Let me never know 
What they become. 

I’m always torn between sharing personal experiences and keeping them to myself but I felt like letting you in a little this time. Thank you for reading. I’ll be most happy if there’s something you want to share with me. Tell me if you found the whole thing weird (or if you’re weirder). You can do so here: anjanashekar@substack.com. Write to you soon :)

Until then,

A