Clearing out a cupboard the other day, I discovered a shelf full of empty tins I’d forgotten about. As I piled them up with a growing sense of alarm, I realised they were just the tip of the iceberg. I’d picked up that habit that had always confused me as a child: the saving of all things, from bags and boxes to tins.
Tell me, truthfully, hand on heart, if you too are guilty of this. Nobody ever threw away a perfectly good tin when I was growing up. Round biscuit tins seemed destined to be sewing kits; somehow, every home had one full of needles and thread, hooks, pins and buttons. Indeed, I think there was a time in the ’90s when there would have been genuine confusion if we’d cracked open one of these and been confronted with butter cookies. Other, smaller tins were excellent for storing wire, batteries, tape. Yet more empty tins waited patiently for objects to fill them up. Similarly, I suspect there isn’t an urban Indian home without its large plastic bag full of smaller plastic bags. Really capacious ones are folded neatly and stacked one on the other. Sturdy, duty-free bags get pride of place. Who knows, one day a guest might say, “Do you have a plastic bag? And who would want to be the family that had to say no! (It’s another matter that when the cherished moment does arrive, there’s a mad scramble instead, and we never do end up sedately handing over the bag we’re most proud of.) Meanwhile, the used-wrapping-paper storage shelf is getting out of control. I still open every gift carefully, smooth out the paper, fold it and store it, along with any ribbons and bows. Sometimes I set aside the entire gift for reuse, on the off chance I might need to gift someone something at very short notice. Such recycling of gifts is almost a religion in India, I think. (Like that joke about how the same tin of soan papdi is still circulating every Diwali.) In my home, the gifts shelf is a jumble of vases, brass plates, aromatic dispensers, lamps, soup bowls, and other bits and bobs, some of which have been languishing for years. (The just-in-case very rarely happens.)
Because they make such handy floorcloths and dusters, ragged old towels must be preserved. Because how else will we polish the mirrors, treasured old T-shirts sit in a soft pile,. You aim for similar-looking jam or pickle jars to reach a healthy, critical number so that you can shift all your spices into matching bottles. (Rarely does this alignment occur.) Empty ice-cream tubs and plastic takeaway dabbas are similarly reused when swapping food with neighbours or packing leftovers for departing guests.
Old sheets and tablecloths are never to be thrown away either; what will we cover furniture with when painters next arrive? Old newspapers become linings for cupboard shelves. In every kitchen, there is at least one shelf devoted to empty glass bottles of all shapes and sizes. Formerly, they held jam, pickle, juice. Washed, cleaned, dried and aired, they are stowed away, to be pulled out to hold sauces or leftover oil, spices and herbs; or to be filled with homemade chutney for a friend. Even shoe boxes must be saved, to store special footwear of course. Somehow, the boxes vastly outnumber the shoes. Torn footwear is thrown away, I guess; somehow we haven’t found a secondary use for them yet. So the boxes sit around, fraying and getting sort of soggy; new shoes come in their own boxes, but who knows when one might need backup. Don’t get me started on broken lamps, old torches, iffy kettles and ancient utensils. And yet, why not treasure the things we have? It’s part of a culture of respect. For things that have served their purpose, done their time, and are valued nonetheless. (Email poonamsaxena3555@ gmail.com. The views expressed are personal)
