pieces of the past

To say that I have not been thinking of death in the past months would be a perfect lie. From the instant I came to know about the nature of Ranjan's ailment, death that was till then a philosophical idea so beautifully described by Oriana Fallaci when she writes: life is a death sentence, suddenly became a reality. The oft repeated words - if you are born than you have to die - assumed a new meaning altogether. Death that seemed so faraway became that much nearer. Mine more than anyone else's. Please do not take this as an essay in morbidity bur rather as a reflection on days gone by, a reminder of the items that still sit unchecked on the umpteen bucket lists one has made, a contemplation on one's existence and  walk down memory lane.

Yesterday as I sat alone, sipping a cup of tea in the rather formal drawing room we rarely use, my eyes wandered on the cornucopia of objects that fill every corner of this rather large space and a sense of nostalgia engulfed me. I was reminded of Ally Condie's words: It is strange how we hold on to the pieces of the past while we wait for our futures. Each object had a story to tell, a story that would die with me if I did not find the time to put in down in words. But then, I asked myself, who would be interested in the tales I wove as I know that to my kids, these rather encumbering and aged objects are clutter that they would have to get rid off as in today's world space is limited and costly and no one has rooms just to keep memories alive. Today's kids are practical and they should be. But I cannot get rid of these treasures as they are the repositories of my passage on earth. The reality is that they will find their end in some garage sale or maybe in some auction house. So be it.

However I would like to take that walk down memory lane and relive some of the forgotten moments of my life. Most of these objects were bought by my parents who travelled the world not for investment purposes but because they liked them. So you may have a very expensive object sitting next to a trinket, both imbibed with the same passion and both treasured in the same manner.

The chair you see in the picture is a Louis XV chair, but the tapestry was woven by my mother. She embroidered this in Vietnam in the sixties when my father had a difficult posting that kept me away in dangerous situation. Mama calmed her nerves by concentrating on her petit point reminding me of Penelope.

The amphora in the background is Ancient. It is from Halicarnassus, now Bodrum in Turkey and was embedded in the seabed till it was discovered. Papa had to seek special permission to take it out of Turkey and it was his price possession. One day our dalmatian was chasing a mouse and the amphora fell and broke. Papa was heartbroken and had tears in his eyes. It was my uncle who with extreme patience repaired it and though there are still some visible cracks, to me it remains papa's most prized possession even if thanks to Furiya our dog, it may be of no value today.

There are vases from China and crystals from Prague, lacquered objects from Vietnam and porcelains from Dresden. The innocuous looking cupboards are filled with priceless dinner sets Meissen, and Rosenthals some dating before the war. I still remember the piece de resistance of my mother's dinners which was a boned whole fish stuffed with innumerable things and served on the larger than life fish platter that barely fits in its present abode. The dainty demi tasses filled with strong coffee witnessed many dinners, some where royalty mingled with the diplomats, writers and ordinary people amidst laugther and cigar smoke, not to forget the colourful Sobranie cigarettes that mama loved and smoked occasionally making sure the colour matched her stunning saris.

So many memories, all tucked away in a ageing and tired brain but still having the ability to bring a much needed smile and a sense of well being I have no words to describe.