by Vani Viswanathan
“What the hell is this?” Biju asked, pulling out a plastic bag with many strips of paper in it.
Mira came running into the room and snatched the bag from him. “It has my travel souvenirs! Ticket stubs, entry passes, etc. From the Greece trip.”
Biju was exasperated. The kinds of junk this woman collects! In their two days of trying to set up a house together, he’d come across vessels that were aging, hundreds of books, papers, scribbles, flyers, photographs, bottle caps, corks, ceramic mugs and autumnal leaves hidden between pages.
She was a hoarder.
A hoarder of memories.
All he had to do was to show her one of the pieces of junk and she’d start off with a story of how she got it, when and who was with her, ending with wistful nostalgia.
Six months ago, when they’d just met, he found it unbelievably cute. She’d lovingly, quietly pocket a coaster from a pub where they were drinking, or keep the ticket stubs from cinemas they went to. He used to find it endearing, and if he contemplated hard enough he knew this habit of her cherishing their memories together drew him to her even more.
But now, now that they’d decided to start living together, he couldn’t believe the wealth of junk she’d amassed. He calculated and figured that she’d have at least 15 years of adolescent and adult life in receipts and tickets and other such nothings.
Honestly, it shouldn’t have mattered. She wasn’t into clothes or shoes or bags, so there was enough space for her to deserve to hoard something else, but he was concerned at the piles of “memories” that were up for sorting and stuffing into their now-joint cupboard space.
Biju sighed as he pulled another bag, but his expression softened when he realised it had stationery in it. Dozens of pens, no kidding. Another had lots of colourful stick-ons, paper clips and binder clips. There was an empty box that probably held paper clips that he tossed aside. He loved stationery himself, so perhaps that evening he’d ask her if he could use some of those. You know, bond over shared love for stationery.
His ankles began to hurt as he realised he was squatting for a long time. He sat down with a thud, and jumped with an ‘Ow!’ He’d sat on something that broke under his weight; the empty box of paper clips he’d thrown aside. Annoyed, he walked up to the living room where they’d placed a huge black garbage bag.
Mira saw him walk up, and asked “What’s up?”
“Broke this,” Biju said, showing her the pieces of the plastic box.
Mira stared at it.
For a while.
Her eyes shrunk.
Biju’s eyes widened with terror.
“Now what?” he whimpered.
“That was my first ever purchase from my college campus. I’d saved it for 13 years.”
Biju cursed his luck. That he should have sat on it!
“I’m so sorry, baby. It was an accident! I sat on it without realising…”
“I know you hate my things! You don’t like the fact that I consider some things memorable! That’s who I am, why can’t you make peace with it?”
“I didn’t do it on purpose! I know by now that you like to hoard junk, it was an acci–“
“Did you just call my things junk? Each of which has a story of its own?”
Biju bit his tongue. This was spiralling into disaster.
“Listen, I’m sorry,” he said, walking up to her and putting his arm around her. “I don’t mean it. I think it’s cute that you collect all these things. I’ll be more careful as I unpack more of our stuff.”
Mira was breathing heavily, and there were tears of rage in her eyes. Biju hoped to God that she’d be pacified soon. He swore to himself that for the duration of their relationship, however long that would turn out to be, he’d stay away from her stuff.
Mira quietly pushed his hand away and walked towards the kitchen. Biju felt defeated, but knew he would be able to make it up at night; she was already showing signs of getting over it. That’s what he liked about her; she was quick to get angry but quick to get over it too. He went back to the bedroom he was in.
A few moments later, he heard a crash from near the living room. “Mira, are you okay?”
There was no response.
Worried, he walked out. Mira was in the living room, humming.
Something was fishy, he thought.
As he walked back through the kitchen, he saw his shot glass, his only souvenir from a month-long stay in Russia, lying on the floor in pieces.
Pic from https://www.flickr.com/photos/alexmuller/
This is really spell-binding!!