A Moving Story - 2

I have a very vague idea on why truth is classified into various categories—such as “ugly”, “bitter”, “sweet”, etc. They work their way without these adornments anyway….and a recurring fact to be well-classified into truth has been the realization on how much irrelevant stuff I have. For me, it’s more complicated than that. The things or stuff….are irrelevant or inconsequential to my daily living but are relevant to memories…or sentimental values so to speak. Things my mother has sent over the years, clothes that I’ll never wear probably, because of their colour or some writing, or because of their associated memories which I want to escape but which I’ll keep nonetheless, papers and documents of yesteryears that has to be kept lest some thunder strikes on their loss—stuff I do not see every day—but which practically lives under your skin, are religiously packed in innumerable boxes and taken along in each of my move. Whoever said “love don’t cost a thing” had no idea on life, or love, or moving for that matter. We move on in our lives, but probably not from memories or sentiments. We just get used to them.

Now…although this is not much of a story that I’m weaving here, our lives are just full of little anecdotes which remind us of narratives read or seen elsewhere. The disturbing fact is that they might remind you of something tacky you wouldn’t wish to be associated with your usual carefully crafted, non-prosaic self-image. Each time I’ve moved, and bought boxes from Staples, I ask for a big cellophane to wrap my boxes, as it’s always, without fail, raining ruthlessly or snowing ruthlessly outside. No, I do not choose the days, but these events are usually marked by very practical urgency and panic-attacks of needing more boxes. And even if it wasn’t supposed to rain/snow that day, it will, with clockwork veracity…and I walk through it and funnily speaking (or embarrassingly speaking)….it reminds me of Kajol in “Kuchh kuchh hota hain” as she stands in the rain on learning that her aficionado belongs to someone else. It was 16 of us in college who went to see the film in 1998 and we were all equally moved by the scene, our cynicism notwithstanding (or probably not so well-developed).

Now that we all are older and barely in touch, when I’m drenched and shivering in rain/wet snow/snow….I think of that scene and think of my friends. As to whether they’d have to move so much. As to how they are and whether amidst kids, taxes, professional deadlines, marital bliss/blues, loan payments……they do miss their less cynical and less wiser selves.

For me, it’s tough to say. The cynicism helps me get through in life and see things with an objective detachment and endure them, and of course, survive each move, and meeting and adjusting with new human beings each time, but it has also replaced the laugh with the smile.

However, it has enabled me to find the sunny side up in everything—even when signing the new contract in the new house—I couldn’t help but realize as to how potential tenants are not allowed to drink, do drugs, and be loud after certain hours or in certain ways for the general peace of others; but when a landlord does it, there’s nothing you could do about it, except move out from the place as soon as convenient. To paraphrase one of my favourite Shakespearian characters, some are born lucky, others achieve luck and…. some have ill-luck thrust upon them. Nonetheless, the third group always wants to belong to the middle group….as they move from one space to another. The journey is made, happy or not.

Not to forget, that in this process, they do gather dust; some of that dust is easy to blow away and some of them remain, irrespective of whether they are moon dust or rusty ones.