I've realised that I'm a hoarder, or should I call myself a collector ? I feel like a fraud when I call myself a collector because such individuals are serious and dignified and not even in my wildest flights of fancy can I claim to be either of the two. Anyway, semantics apart, my collecting/hoarding tendencies are rooted in my past, in my childhood to be precise. Let's take a quick trip down that good old memory lane, when I was running around like a wild child, complete with scabbed knees, missing teeth and wonky pigtails. How many years ago, asks the reader who wants specifics. Why go into inconsequential numerical details dear friend, let's just say that it was a couple of decades back. I had the characteristics of an enthusiastic magpie. If you cast your mind on that mischievous denizen of the avian fraternity, you'll remember what your teacher taught you in school. The magpie is said to be a prolific hoarder.
The bird was attracted to anything that glittered, but I had no such constraints - anything small and considered uninteresting by the general populace was of utmost interest to little pig-tailed me. Pebbles worn smooth over the years which reminded me of clouds; scraps of brilliantly coloured cloth that I used to filch from the tailor; transparent wrappers of boiled candy that I would wrap tightly round my fingertips to see the whorls more clearly ; misshapen pieces of chalk in different colours which always left a dusting of coloured dreams on my hands ; pencil stubs that reminded me of tiny men in top-hats ; soft feathers in pale shades of blue, yellow and rust that I got from my grand-mom's neighbour who had pet love-birds ; cloth covered buttons; broken pieces of jewel-hued glass bangles ; all these and more were my prized possessions, stored carefully in a colourful round biscuit tin.
As I left the magical world of childhood behind and entered the angst ridden world of adolescence, my collector's soul too underwent a transformation. Out went all the colourful baubles and fancy stuff. My teenage mind found solace and a perfect reflection of my turbulent emotions in the words of songs, and that too Hindi film songs. My efforts were now turned to collecting the lyrics of as many songs as I could. I've painstakingly collected the lyrics, including the information about the composers, the actors who acted in them, and then recorded every tiny detail in notebooks. The pictures of the actors were carefully cut out of magazines and pasted along with the songs. Since Google was not even a thought in the minds of its makers, my main sources were the radio stations and in those days All India Radio and Vividh Bharati were the only two around. So getting accurate lyrics was a tortuous, laborious affair. Now when I look back, I'm astounded that between my obsessive song writing and compulsive reading, I managed to complete my education without my parents suffering nervous breakdowns !
Over time, songs were replaced by pithy sayings and interesting quotes. The Reader's Digest magazine played an important role in this phase since that was my principal source. I've a distinct memory of myself bent over a beautiful moss-green diary (which I still have with me), copying quotations from RD. The sky was overcast and the rain beat down gently while I was ensconced in my room lost in a world of words. I carry around that image with me and try to slip back into the serenity of that moment whenever I feel overwhelmed by life.
Sadly I've almost bid adieu to my collecting days. Work and later motherhood saw me hurtling down uncharted terrain trying desperately to hang on to my sanity. There was never enough time or the mental space required for my inner magpie to manifest itself. But I've managed to hold on to my love of notebooks. I love them in any shape, size or colour. Earlier I used to feel guilty about buying new ones when I hadn't used the earlier ones. I'm still attacked by guilt, but I've learnt to successfully silence this tiresome, nagging inner voice and move on happily. I think it's the possibility of spilling out words onto the fresh pages that fills me with a deep satisfaction. And as long as I love words I don't think I'll give up on this love.
Beautiful
Beautifully written.