The Secret Life of Objects

In Maryland, I bought an old set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica for ten dollars in a garage sale. I purchased it because it would look nice in our home library. But the books were heavy, and I couldn’t carry them back to India. So they stayed with my cousin for years. Even after I brought them home, they stood unopened on my shelf.

One day, my younger son pulled out a volume and found a twenty-dollar bill. Later, he found two hundred dollars hidden in another book. It felt as if the books had been waiting to share a secret.

I keep thinking about the person who kept that money.

Sometimes I imagine it was a busy house lady, trying to manage a home and a job. Maybe she tucked money away in the kitchen, the library, or anywhere she could find space. Perhaps she planned to keep it safe for emergencies, then life moved on, and she forgot where she put it. I wonder if she ever needed that money and searched for it without finding it. So many stories might lie between those pages.

When I look around my room, I see other old things that belong to me now. My bed and armchair belonged to my grandfather. They are solid wood, strong and heavy. The armchair had dark patches where his hands rested over years. When I sit there, I feel close to him. I picture him sitting quietly, reading or thinking. Sometimes it makes me miss him so much it hurts.

My grandfather used to put soorma in his eyes. He kept it in a small silver box, along with a slender metal stick he used to apply it. Many times, he would put it in my eyes too. The other day, when I saw my dad putting kajal in my granddaughter’s eyes, I was flooded with memories of those moments I was blessed to share with my grandfather.

On my wall hang two cameras in frames. One belonged to my grandfather, the other to my father. I still have many photos my father took with his camera. My whole childhood lives in those pictures; birthdays, school days, holidays, family gatherings, Diwali lights.

When I look at the cameras, I revisit those moments when we used to pose for him. The camera hanging from his neck. His fingers on the shutter. His other hand turning the lens. I wonder how happy he felt, taking pictures of me and my sister. 

On my desk sits a silver ink pot. I am not sure whose it was. My grandfather’s, or someone from the generation before him. I wonder what letters it helped write. Love letters, business deals, daily accounts. Perhaps lists of debts, or notes of kindness.

I also have my grandfather’s watch. I remember clearly the moment I took it from him. It was my grandparents’ fiftieth anniversary. My son was just a few months old then. I had saved my first salary to buy a pair of watches for my grandparents. I opened my grandfather’s old watch and slipped the new one onto his wrist. My son was in my grandmother’s lap, looking around the room, a quiet witness to a historic moment in our family, unaware of its importance. That day felt full; of family, of time moving forward, and of the old and new coming together.

I keep these things because they remind me of where I come from. They remind me of people I love, people I miss, and moments that shaped me. Sometimes these objects make me feel sad because they remind me how time moves on and leaves people behind. Other times, they comfort me, as if my family’s blessings are around me.

We say we own things, but sometimes I feel they own small pieces of us. They hold our touch, our breath, our quiet thoughts. They remember what we might forget.

I wonder if one day my children will keep these things. Will they run their fingers over the wood, look into the old cameras, wear my watch?  Or have memories around my personal possessions? Will they feel close to me when they see them?

These old things are more than objects. They are silent keepers of the people and the time that made me. They carry voices, hands, secrets, and love. I hold onto them because they hold the parts of me I never want to lose.