Cleaning A Wardrobe on A Lazy Afternoon

Why, it's just a wardrobe, I tell myself

And yank open the doors fighting my long-time inertia

I close my eyes, so as not to see the things I have long avoided

The sarees, the photo albums and the meaningless bric-a- brac of a housewife.

I guard myself against the memories that wrap its tentacles around my resisting brain

I try to conduct it in a business-like manner, sorting out the junk

Only to realise I do not know which is the junk, which the useful ones

In my own house, there is a wardrobe that belongs to no one.

Why had you kept this scrap book of mine, I want to ask her

Or why had you stocked up these woollens that I wore when I was seven?

I realise I have to decide about them now, this personal memorabilia preserved for so many years,

For reasons known only to her.

I find that she had already bought dresses for pooja

She had carefully stored all the trinkets gifted by me in an ornate box

She had book-marked recipes in a magazine, her children were coming home the next month

Apparently, she  had not envisioned what lay in store.

I turn a philosopher, my best weapon in times of crisis

And reflect on the transitoriness of life

I spread mothballs on her beautiful sarees, keep a couple more in the empty purses

All the time imagining her doing the same thing over the years.

I close the doors of the steel keeper of memories with a loud clang

It's legacy too difficult for me to take over

I had been always been admonished by her for my messy wardrobe

But again, I realised, a few wardrobes are better kept untouched and disorganized.