i am terrified of tags, because i mull over them for days, unsure of what to write. and then i feel awful that the person who tagged me might think i am 1) ignoring the person and tag 2)am lazy 3)am lazy 4) am lazy...
so then i get into a tizzy and do what i do best, procrastinate.
but some tags hit you straight in the face, suddenly...
like this one
i woke up with a mission, the mice will work while the cat is away. the husband is away, and i will sort his three cartons, two trunks, and five piles of paper that sit like giant installation pieces in the middle of the tiny room that serves as my study and sanah's room.
These are papers i sorted sitting on a stool when i was nine months pregnant, with carpenters all around me, hurrying away, because i threatened i would deliver my child in the middle of that mess.
i sorted the papers with utmost sincerity, asked the husband to go through what i had deemed as junk, as important, as worth sentimental value etc. He went through and put EVERYTHING back into the cartons and trunks, and what did not fit was stacked up as piles.
the baby came, the baby room was pretty unusable. i began editing my film, i shoved all the papers into the loft. last Year, sometime, all the papers were brought down because HE wanted to sort them. his parents were expected, so i shoved everything out of sight , under the table, behind the door. they left, he brought them out, to sort them. i forget how many times we played this game. but its been months since the two trunks, many cartons, and even more piles sit around me while i work on the comp( now do you know why i blog, rather than complete my three proposals, its to escape the mess around me!)
to come back to the tag.
given that i have gone insane with these papers, when i began this morning i was foolishly happy to stumble upon the corniest things this man has preserved. read this. i collect objects, he collects the written word.
to give you a sample:
a dog eared script of a play he did a decade ago
a newspaper article on the human chain formed in Harsud eons ago, significant for the two of us
a term paper deligently written in the third term of his MA
a bibliography listed out sometime , someplace
a leaf from his notes, because i had doodled and scribbled on the side
the mush is fast turning to rage because i spotted an untouched book titled 'how to learn typing' that he has held close to his heart since college, a book i have chucked atleast fifteen time, its bloody back in the bloody carton!
before i am consumed by anger, here is my list of things that make me happy, and i include things i have, unfortunately, not done in a while...
and there is no particular order to this list
stumbling upon a letter/note that has been carefully folded inside a book, sheaf of "important" papers, or stored under freshly ironed clothes in the cupboard
taking the #1 bus from parel to regal, sitting on the front seat of the double decker. ( i did this almost every second day for the one and a half years i worked in parel)
walking from churchgate station to kala ghoda/VT/strand book shop/nariman point/regal
seeing the child delight over a glorious moon
books on sale
a good film, in a hall ( i just can not seem to watch a film alone on DVD or the laptop)
the few minutes before a play or a performance begins, when the lights go off, and there is a hush
a long train journey, with a book, or a dear one
any bby sea front in the evening
the grand trees that dot all of bangalore
clutching a freshly picked up schedule for a film festival and marking all the films we have to see( actually george marks and i argue)
spotting the flushed red cheeks when my mum tries to fib
spotting the shifty eyes when my dad tries to fib
spotting the overconfident swagger when the husband tries to fib
and i tag, poppins, y( if you are reading this), banno
space bar, i know you dread tAGS too, but how about the very small objects that you collect that make you happy?