Chowringee, my love, I was cleaning out my “wardrobe” today which are actually small cabinets scattered across my room. My room, at every point, is overflowing with clothes. I call it a work hazard. Hopefully, people who sell clothes are nodding. Today, I set out to thin the stacks, to be ruthless with the cotton and the silk. But as I began to pull them out, I realized I was not easily going to part ways with them. And in fact, I was conducting an audit of my own life.
I have come to think of my collection of clothes as a museum. Or perhaps a journal.
Most people look at a dress and see a drape or a shade. I think about these clothes more often than not. I will passionately, for hours, talk about the grain of the handloom, the exactness of a stitch, the way a shoulder seam finally, mercifully, aligns with my own. I watch how the fabric falls, how it creases when I sit a certain way, the specific depth of a shade of blue, or a small, stubborn ink stain that has become part of the pattern.
I see the history of my own body in a maroon Sambalpuri kurta that has been with me for twelve years. It is a stubborn, faithful thing. The maroon hasn't faded a bit, though I have changed by gaining weight, losing it, refusing to wear it out of a quiet spite for my own reflection. Through every fluctuation, it simply waited for me to return.
Then there are the pieces that carry the sentimental value I hold for others. There is the dupatta I sneaked from my mother’s cupboard. It lives in the drawer beside my bed which I never happen to open. And there are my sister’s oversized kaftans, passed to me only after she saw a tear and gave up on them.
I gave a few of them away today to two friends who were witness to my emotional slaughter of kurtas. Giving them away feels like a small bereavement party.
Firstly and most importantly, there is the fear that no one will cherish the stories that I have stuffed into these clothes for no reason as a hoarder of not just clothes but memories. The twelve years my Ajrakh dupatta spent as my travel companion, shielding me from the dementor vents of the AC. I have shared too many comforting and uncomfortable journeys with it to view it as mere cloth. When I give my clothes away, I remember that my time with them was limited and now they will be witness to stories of other people’s lives.
Today, I finally said goodbye to my green Ajrakh kurta that I wore for innumerable dates and college assignments. After ten years of sun and washing, it is no longer a warm shade, but I finally found the heart to let it go. It is out in the world now, hopefully becoming a companion for their life events, awkward dates and mundane Tuesdays.
Back to cleaning up.