What’s the oldest things you’re wearing today?
“Some old things can never get old, with time they get more precious”
Shipra
Memories. Every time I look at that ring, I go back in time. It’s a cool monsoon evening. The air is humid. The clouds are heavy, threatening to burst. But, holding on to the precious water, waiting for the opportune moment to burst. The time when most people walk around without protective rain gear, for the most effect. That evening, I stepped out, with the kid in the carry bag around my chest. With the stroller in one hand, the kind in the pouch, and the diaper bag in the other hand, I hailed an Auto (tuk-tuk in South India- a three-wheeled vehicle that is sometimes very unbalanced) and headed off. This was a week before my kid turned one. We were out shopping, looking for the perfect dress for her. She had just started to walk, so the aim was to get her one of those pouffe-looking dresses with billowing skirts so she could look adorable.
Back then, my hometown had just one store stocked with baby/infant/toddler clothes. Mothercare had yet to enter the market and choices were very limited. We always caught up when we met in the evening. Earlier we used to have a cup of coffee, now we spoke over the kid’s head, while big ‘doe’ eyes were made at him. We reached the office in less than 45-Minutes and the ride and air on the face felt awesome. The husband joined me, and we decided to walk to the market. On route, we passed a jewelry store called Bhima’s. The plan was to only pick up stuff for the kid and not waste time. The kid had been fed, so the restriction was mainly ours because we were yet to have dinner. Happy to see the stress reliever grinning at him, he walked into the jewelry store. I had no budget. I had no requirements. I had no references. Yet, the husband looked and picked up a solitaire – to celebrate the kid turning 1.
I love my bling. I like my gold. And I adore and am super possessive of my oxidized silver junk. But apart from the basic pieces I picked at the time of my wedding, as part of my trousseau, I have a very minimalistic collection. I have picked a piece here, a sari there, or a memento somewhere else; each has stories. Their value is based more on the stories than on the object itself. For instance, I picked a pair of earmuffs/headbands from the Thamel market in Nepal during the trek. The cost of these objects is minimal, and they are more than a decade old, but they have stories attached to them, that I tell the kids even today. I do have things that I have selected at specific times in our lives to celebrate an event or milestone. This ring, from Bhima’s, was purchased to celebrate a year with our first kid. Although I’ve worn it all this while, at some point I guess it goes to the kid for whom we made the purchase. There are random things, we have picked up along the way on our lazy walks across the market. Some have been curated by the siblings, a few have been shortlisted by Mum and some are there just because “Why not?” like a lost earring made the leftover piece a nose stud, and the plan is to give it to the other kid because maybe they would find the story relatable.
I did not meet my grandparents. I did not spend time with them. I have no memories of my grandmother or what she may have worn. I have no memories of my grandfather or what he did for the older siblings. But I have heard the stories. And those stories bring a different timeline to life. I would love my old things to bring a similar skein of memory or belief to life.
But to be fair, the oldest thing I am wearing today would be my skin. As old as me. As tough as me. As gnarly as me. My skin tells a unique story all its own. Of hot summer days, running in the sun. Of cold winter nights, sitting by the fire sharing scary stories. Of rainy afternoons huddling with the pets, snacking on a deep-fried snack sipping hot chai. Of razor burns. Of summer tans. Of laughter lines creating fresh furrows with every new memory we create, of frown lines that touch the deepest of my memories, and the crow’s feet that squint into the future finding that elusive sliver of hope. It rings the jackpot when I pass the dermatologist. Just a glance from my husband and it turns a gentle shade of red. A faux pas from the kid and it turns a violent shade of purple. A palette that reflects my every mood and mimics my feelings. It’s just skin, they say. That old bag that holds the bones in place.
“Old things have a soul, a unique story to tell. They carry the whispers of the past”
Author Unknown
Just a little more 