Cupboards

Everyday, cupboards are open and shut, with their doors swinging to the hurried push and pull gestures of the hands. We always look into our cupboards, but, we never see into them. So, what happened when I finally decided to see? I found a story.

The newspapers that lined the shelves were cloaked under a fine layer of dust, with particles waltzing in the wind, under the sway of an accidental puff of breath, or a deliberate blow. Tucked away neatly, under the newspapers, was an entire ocean of things that were forgotten: broken blue buttons, silver coins that had turned brown, a ten rupee note with a piece of tape running down its center, the black clips that I always am in desperate need of, but can never find, and, bills collected at clothing shops, heavily yellowed at the edges.

From the cupboard, I can smell the scent of confusion: the smell of starch and detergent from the washed clothes, the smell of warmth- the warmth that radiates from freshly ironed clothes, the lavender and vanilla from the scent sachets, rather feeble against the piercing fragrance of naphthalene balls that are nearing exhaustion. This panopticon of smells is held together by the mustiness of the dust, which never fails to tickle a sneeze out of me. These smells are the grand masters of storytelling; amongst themselves they narrate biographies of joy, satisfaction, pleasure and nostalgia.

The topmost shelves are adorned by bags, sweaters and raincoats that I have outgrown since long. The bags still house possessions, like forgotten chocolates and pens that never wrote in the first place. As I run my fingers over the sweater, I can feel trapped within its fibers, the fragments of rare winter sunshine. The raincoats are the loveliest- I can hear the sound of raindrops as they crashed against the hood, like waves crashing against rocks. I also discover the impressions left behind by biscuit boxes and candy jars that I used to, rather selfishly, keep hidden from the others, under the impenetrable network of bags, sweaters and raincoats.

The bottom shelf was the best of all; colorful and exquisite, like a gallery of Rembrandt’s paintings. Here, I found old report cards, albums, folders of my embarrassing kindergarten artwork and an assortment of gift-wrappers that had been removed from birthday gifts with utmost care.

On the inside of the cupboard doors, permanently scarred from the extensive use of tape, were pasted- reminders on pink post-it notes, postcards and letters that people were kind enough to send me, handwritten posters of favourite lines collected from books, and, belts hanging from plastic hooks, with their perpetual threat of falling apart. If I stand close enough to the door, I can smell glue that had secretly escaped into the gaps in the wood.

Cupboards are entire galaxies by themselves. It is inside cupboards that Time feels the happiest, as streams of the past, present and future flow together, in an united confluence. But, the best part? Cupboards are like the Prologues that one finds in books. Except, this time, I am the character, and the book chronicles the peculiar oddities that make me, me.

The next time you stand in front of your cupboard, give it a little more love, a little more attention, as it awaits you with trembling excitement, wanting you to explore the museum of memories and stories that it has preserved so carefully over the years, so that you never ever lose the elixir that makes you what you are. Also, pay attention to the cupboards of the others that make up your universe; the route-maps that lead to their essence reside there, locked away from the travelers who seek them.

(My cupboard happens to be the holder of a rather enviable record: I am yet to lose a single sock).