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One of the first remodeling attempts at the
currently-not-so-new-home a year back was to install a nice
closet system. Out with the apartment style wire rack with a
wooden hanger rack and in with the perfect closet organization
system for the home.
Off I went IKEA, measured and measured more
and finally after quite some pondering and sweat equity designed
my own closets and assembled them. Something to take great pride
in. I thought about it a lot and planned out whose clothes goes
where and places for assorted stuff that include gifts, jewelry,
handbags. We had the "his" and "her" space. It looked perfect!
It was my dream house and dream closet....
Slowly over the period of time, I started
encroaching on "his" space and he being the nice guy always let
me take over.... After all, all he needed were two pairs of blue
jeans, a few maroon tees, a couple of formal pants and shirts
(and yes make them maroon, grays work too). After every trip to
the mall, every trip to India, every arriving package from India
my collection grew and more encroachments.
A couple of months earlier, we looked into
the space called the closet where our clothes were thrown
haphazardly and we were at times jumping over things lying on
the floor. Oh yeah it is worth mentioning here, that 99% of the
times, the things gracing the floor are mine.
So donning hard hats and flashlights we
decided to handle the closet and be merciless about clothes they
have not worn in years but just occupy space. We decided and
started with "his" stuff. It went on fast and quite smoothly. He
really did not have that much stuff and a few lesser maroon tees
did not matter to him. Clean and neat it looked!
Motivated I thought I can do it. I started
off in earnest, but with time my to-donate-pile did not grow at
a rate I expected it too. After a while, I stepped out to pack
the to-donate-pile for Goodwill.
His clothes went in easily into the big
plastic bag. I pulled a discarded-grey top from the pile and
started folding it and my mind drifted off. As my fingers
caressed the embroidered design and I smiled... memories of
grandmother holding the needle and working on it, the first time
I wore it, the compliments I basked in and the sentiments I
attached to it. I did not have the heart to throw it out, in
spite of it being a little too tight and a lot out of fashion.
It went back into the closet.
I pulled out the next dress, a green salwar
top, well-worn, red roses covering it. Another creation from
grandma... tons of memories... I had a stupid sentiment, wear
only embroidered salwars for exams in college, my lucky charm or
so I thought. My mind raced to the numerous exam halls I sat in,
the last minute cramming sessions in front of the exam halls and
an mini-nervous breakdown (yeah I had one before every single
one), an attempt to calm me down by the every-patient-N and then
more prayers and fears till the pen hit the paper and then it
was smooth sailing. The salwar went back to the closet, how can
I do it.
He looked at me surprised and amazed at my
stories... he never thought someone could attach such an
emotional bond with their clothes.... the closet looks organized
but the to-be-donated pile remains small!
I would love to hear from my readers. Please
contact me at
viniscorner@gmail.com
- V
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