It is not so often that something reminds me of time, time that has been spent, worn-out and folded in to neat pages of the history…this huge white wooden closet in my room

Reminds me of an aged pillar in a temple, the ones which tell us the stories of kings and queens, their dancers and divinities...the diminutive minutiae of ornaments and hairstyles

Sometimes expletive orgasms …thus when I open this closet what tumbles out is myriad

Memories each associated with a colorful piece of cloth or a trinket.

There was a time when I would stealthily pry on mom’s closet, they were my days of puberty and perils, and I would claim my stake on anything she had, like those banares saris which she had fondly collected as heirlooms from her wedding, but she had a story for each sari, particularly for the orange and white ones which were her favorite, her hands would mildly trace the mangoes and butterfly motives on the border while her eyes got misty… “The white one”...she would murmur choking on silvery tears “The white one was from my mother, she would wear cotton saris bought from the society, five rupees a piece, and they always had green mangoes woven in their borders”. Her stories were enchanting, inspiring and akin to chanting vande matharam, people those times thought less was more, mom remembers only two sari from her 10^th grade and she remembers pressing them 10 times and washing them 20 times, like she became the dhobi not by virtue but by habit.

With comparison to her life I was brought up with opulence, the tragedy of it all is that I lost count of saris and blouses, and I had no stories to tell, so I thought, but twenty years later, today when I look at the piles of colorful saris neatly sitting on top of another, I remember stories- the violet, pink, red heavily gold embroidered ones bashfully remind me of a bride, the black chiffon coyly recollects the first kiss in the corner of that airport,

The orange one with millions of small florets ...that was given to me by my first ex boyfriend’s girl friend… my life has seen umpteen twisted closures and this one…I had to keep.

The green one was splurged and bought by the first imported money I was sent, it was costly! My colleagues each had raised their one eyebrow while the other one scantly glared at me.

And the blouses, they were in all shapes and shades, it was like I wanted to be Hemamalini, mandakini, and Sharmila Tagore at once with twin bows behind.

There were Plunging necklines and bare backs, sometimes they were square in the neck,

Sometimes purely barbaric in design, I have had long sleeves, short sleeves, mega sleeves and bellbottom sleeves…the length and breadth of blouses in my collection reminds me of my girth in progress, so when ever I look at the shortest sleeved daintily embroidered blouse I am pelted by the images of my adolescent, now nearing forty, I envy that green blouse and fold it carefully so that it could be passed on as a heirloom to my DIL’s , the hitch is to remind them constantly that I was better looking than what I maybe, so I do have stories of my own , rather more unimportant, I wasn’t obviously raised on two saris so I had more colorful life ! I had my each wish fulfilled, my each whim culminated.

 The ensemble of colors and variety in my wardrobe at times fazes me out, it makes me guilty of some treason…they also remind me of the time wrap …

From the smallest blouse to the fattest…err the largest ...I have grown 20 years

With this closet full of clothes...have come a long way in collecting them carefully

And connecting them with parts of my life…now some of them are old and almost

Good to be discarded but I hang on to them knowing that it’s what is left of my life

Today .