In many an article, I have expressed my displeasure for
accumulating things with the complete belief that I am devoid of that sin of
hoarding. I see hoarding as a middleclass thing, the remnant of its lower
middle class status, the inability to shed the last trace of its deprivations
and parsimony. Right from banking and co-operative movements to lottery, piggy
bank to art collections, accumulating has many dimensions. The Rich amass wealth and it becomes an obsession, a time pass. The poor want to do the same
and it becomes an occupation. In between, both the groups accumulate things. The
rich ones collect souvenirs, artefacts, works of art, perfumes, liquors, silks,
stones, precious metals, cruise boats, private jets, cars, pets and so on. The poor
ones collect bus tickets, used refills, old clothes, milk covers, polythene
bags, egg shells and what not. While the former collects things for enjoyment,
the latter collects it for a possible future use (which perhaps never comes).
Children collect matchbox stickers, superhero cards, toys, candy foils and so
on (I am talking from a very old experience). Lovers collect lovers, broken
bangles, kerchiefs, dreams, tears, sighs and at times hair. Brooding ones collect
stamps, coins and curious information. Smart ones just collect information so
that they could keep their neck up in any situation.
Freud calls it anal retention. Any collector has this habit
of holding the shit back up in the posterior. They just do not want to leave
it. Freud was perhaps utterly unromantic. Walter Benjamin did not think so. For
him collecting was a sort of memorialisation of life. It has a lot to do with
history. Benjamin is acceptable because he does not reek with the smell of
shit. Freud is down to earth and calls a shit, a shit. People hoard things
because there are a lot of memories attached to each of the collected items. I
am talking about a conscious collector; not the ones who invest in a work of
art or the mothers religiously collecting milk covers. Both of them never use
it. The art collector who invests in art never enjoys what he has just picked
up from the galleries or studios. The mothers would never put the milk covers
back into use. At times they wonder why they do it. You can show off a Husain
on your wall even if it is a bad print. But you cannot flaunt your milk covers
or egg shells. The best policy is to throw what you do not need after use. Do
not collect.
But people do not do it because they attach a lot of memory
to the things that they collect. When they look at something, they just
remember from where they have got it and who was with them and what had
prompted the collecting of it. It is beautiful to remember things past; some
memories are painful but far removed from the time of happening, even the
painful memories lose their pain part in retrospection. That’s called
philosophical distance/distancing. The mad man on the road who collects rubbish
and ties them to his body must be carrying a lot of memory with him. The memory
of scavenging. But who said it is scavenging? For him, he must be digging for gold
or exploring in to the annals of history which we fail to see in the rubbish
and rubble. What else do historians do in the research centres and in their
private studies. They look like these mad men but in good clothes with a lot of
invisible burden. I like both the parties. They generate a lot of interest.
Except books I do not hoard anything. I collect books not
for the sake of collecting but for reading. People have offered me books which
I have politely declined at times as those many not be of my interest. Those
people who do the spring cleaning at times think of giving me some books upon
hearing that I collect books. But when they come and see the collection I have
they shy away without talking about their charity offering again. I am not a
dump yard of books. However, I salivate when I hear about books. Even if you
have had enough food to quench your hunger when you are given some delicious
dessert you would think of stuffing your mouth again. That’s the case with me
as far as books are concerned. But in the case of other things, be it clothes
or anything else, I have been thinking of myself as a person devoid of that
hoarding vice. Recently I was cursorily going through the stuff and I found out
the following.
In a corner of my bed room I found three pairs of foot
wears. Nothing great about it because I have heard of people having quite a
good number of shoes, not just Imelda Marcos of Philippines and Jayalalita of
Tamil Nadu; my friends, artists, who have shelves full of foot wear. I saw
these three pairs and was shocked. One pair I had never worn which is now
filled with dust. One pair of walking shoes is in a dilapidated state. Another
pair of walking shoes lies there waiting for me to push my feet into it next
time. That pair of shoes has not informed of my techniques of doing my morning
walks or evening walks without foot wear. Then I came across these small little
pouches and covers of washing powder and bathing soaps inside the bathroom
cupboard, reminding me the number of times I have washed my clothes. I do not
have a washing machine. I dance on wet clothes for fifteen minutes and I get my
exercise and the clothes get their adequate thrashing. Then I look at a small
soap box which is full of soap pieces. I am person who uses soap till they
become transparent or invisible or even thinner than the paper. I wonder why I
did not throw them out. Then I look at these empty ink bottles which are slowly
growing in a silent corner. Why am I not throwing them out? Is it because I am
middle class or I simply forget to throw them. What is holding me back from
throwing them? I need to really throw them out.
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