Garments-donation and its side effects

With the deadline for the garments-donation project initiated by SFV ladies nearing, I embarked on it at home, combining de-cluttering of my wardrobe with philanthropy.

My hands dug deep on to some trousers that had piously waited a year or two for my much-publicized weight-reduction regimen to pay dividends so that their waist-ends could meet. No luck. The T-shirts, in turn, got blamed for having shrunk whereas it was my body-circumference that had grown unchecked.

I segregated the clothes into three categories: Retain, Donate, Undecided. While Retain and Undecided piles almost lost their balance, Donate looked with askance at his counterparts if he would ever open an account.  

Reason? Although many eminently qualified to the Donate category more because of owner’s indiscriminate growth than their wear and tear, each garment had a story to tell. “Oh my God, these were the ones Shankar-Sunita gifted me for Ashwin and Rohan’s (grandsons) thread ceremony. How can I part with them,” I said, temporarily halting their discard. “And lo, definitely not these,” I said looking at the shirt and trousers that the lady of the house (LOH) had gifted me on our 50th marriage anniversary.” And then there was another set which also I was about to hold back.  

“Arey old man, at this rate you will never part with anything; better wind up the operation,” came an inner voice. Better sense prevailed. Kept sentiments at bay and went about reshuffling them, this time fully cheering Donate.

On such occasions one often thinks of doing a comprehensive job and take up other postponed projects. I did exactly that.  Weeding out files – physical and electronic.  First, the sale of Delhi house file. “Oh my God, if only I had given the house on rent and sold it now, I would have made six times more the money as Batra did.” Then the Coimbatore plot. “If only I had retained it, I could have built a spacious bungalow with ground and first floors, stayed in one and rented out the other, rather than booking a match-box type retirement home in the same area, as I have done now.” 

The LOH seldom misses on what I am doing be she at one end and I at the other. “Enna, I don’t see you shredding papers. Again daydreaming? Come on, tell me.” She persisted. She has a knack of getting it out of me. “Stay happy that in both cases you got the prevailing price. Aage ki socho,” she said, and brought, as consolation, my second dose of coffee a little earlier.

Side by side LOH got busy sorting out salwars, kameez, sarees and other items for donation many of which brought back fond memories of shopping at Kolkata, Amritsar, Delhi, Ahmedabad…Luckily in her case it took her half the time to make up her mind. And in strict confidence, her Donate bundle was heavier than mine.

As I write these lines, I found her engaged in segregating utensils and household appliances including a few pressure cookers (some in working condition), cake maker, Kerala puttu maker (steamed rice cake), many of which had not seen the light of the day for years. 

“Some time later, not now,” she alerted me, “we shall take a call on furnishings - the sitting stools in the living room, the different sizes of coffee mugs we bought during outstation trips, the crockery and stainless steel dinner sets, bed sheets we are fed up of seeing day in and day out, pillow covers that looked fine at the shop, but any longer,  not to speak of the umpteen types of fancy cushions. But they can wait. They come handy for an afternoon nap.” 

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