The Old Black Trunk

I lowered my bags and looked around the room. It was going to be my home now. I inhaled, deeply filling my lungs with familiar and yet unfamiliar air. In one corner stood my Aaji’s (maternal grandmother's) black trunk, worn out and forgotten. I gazed at the dust motes suspended in morning light illuminating its surface and soon a kaleidoscope of childhood memories began to emerge.

A mild fragrance of cloves wrapped in muslin drifted in and took me back to a bright winter morning on our terrace, the image of my Ma sitting on a durrie, the clang and clatter of the old trunk's lid as she held it up and pushed it back and the flutter of excitement in my ten-year-old heart as I peeped from behind the door waiting to be called all came flooding back to me.

 I always thought either she had eyes at the back of head too or a sixth sense. Sensing my presence she would call and ask for a helping hand. Flushed with joy and feeling all important I would gather my frock with little hands and rush to her lap taking in the fragrance of soft cotton and silk sarees and the earthy scent of my mother, a scent of warm comfort and belonging , a scent of sandalwood, gardenia and eau de cologne.

Even after so many years the vividness is overwhelming. Slowly all the contents were taken out and spread under the early winter sun. The curls of her freshly washed hair played around her oval face, a stray strand of hair bothered her again and again as she pushed it back with her slim fingers.

The treasure hunt began with the opening of the carved walnut box that had compartments of various sizes. One by one the family heirlooms, an old silver surme dani, a sindur dani, a nut cracker shaped like a parrot, some broken silver jewellery, a few age-old coins (the one paisa coin with a hole was my favourite), small faded monochrome photographs, two curls of baby hair (my elder brother's and mine) and our umbilical stubs neatly wrapped in tissue paper marked with our names shone under the skylight.

It was a special bonding time. The thought of my mother’s lap, her hand smoothing my ruffled hair still makes me warm all over. I would open the tiny velvet covered lids of the compartments by inserting my little finger in the holes to uncover some hidden memory.

The box had a mirror on the inside of the lid and a secret compartment behind it which opened if you pressed the latch hard. Some yellowing old letters, pages with smudged ink, tied with a red string lay in the secret enclosure. She would take them out carefully, gaze at them, run her fingers on the neat arrangement of words and put them back with a sigh. I always wondered who wrote them. A former lover perhaps?

I loved the lustrous silks in red, blue, green and gold especially ma’s deep Indian red Banarasi silk wedding saree, exquisitely hand embroidered. The sari I would one day wear on my wedding day.

Each saree opened up a magical world of complex textures, motifs and weaves. The Kanjivarams with their intricately woven zari, Tussars (a few with lovely temple borders), Ikkats, Dhakai, Jamdanis, Pochampallis, Chanderis with their shimmering brocade, the rich Jamevars,  and the Maheshwari silk cotton sarees with lovely local motifs decorating the borders. They made me think of the gently flowing Narmada river along whose banks they were born. I remembered listening to Ma explaining how each saree was a different weave and texture, their origin and association with the region to which they belonged. To me it all seemed like a fairy tale. It was much later that I actually began to appreciate sarees as an attire. At that time they were just a thing of joy and wonder. Vibrant dreamscapes dazzling under the warm winter sun.

Then there were Venkatagiris, Mysore and Kota silks. Many of the sarees were hand-woven and had unique pallus. My fingertips still carry the feel of the gentle and sensuous crêpes, chiffons and georgettes ma had. All of them intrinsi­cally feminine and sensuous, handpicked by my father during his travels across India or part of a legacy handed down by my grandmother. Sarees are often repository of family histories, of grandmothers and mothers passing on tradition wrapped up in six or nine yards. A reflection of their individual identity, a sort of second skin.

The trunk had some of my Ajji’s old muslin sarees. I would hold them against my cheek and instantly feel her presence. The sarees reminded me of her soft plump hands. Each one of them carried her scent and with it all the memories of our time spent together. I would try to memorize the names of the sarees but the sheer magic of the colour, fabric and rich patterns sent my imagination soaring to a different time and space making me forget everything.

Between the layers of sarees lay small bundles of silver ware and old jewellery. One by one I would try all the silver ornaments and pose for appreciation. Ma would laugh and promise to give them to me when I grew up. It made my heart swell with joy. Neatly I would wrap them and place each one back with expert little hands.

The trunk held some more memories steeped in tradition, a few of my Dadi’s (paternal grandmother) blouses which I thought were very chic and stylish even in their simplicity, a cotton lehenga so large that it seemed like a vast magical portal to me in which one could enter and never emerge. A bundle revealed a few more old silver ornaments, a hefty silver kabarband, chunky pajebs and some beautiful meticulously hand embroidered black velvet borders. These few things were the only memories left of her. Neither Ma nor I had the pleasure to know this remarkable woman.

Among other things, there was a round engraved powder puff box made of silver. The puff was made of delicately soft goose down. Passed on from one generation to another the powder puff held a distinct aura of the people it had belonged to. Each heirloom evoked a hazy image of someone special who had used it and carefully handed it down to the next generation. In a lucid moment ma divided most of the things between her children and grandchildren and I got my favourite powder puff box among other things.

As the afternoon shadows stretched long and thin ma would carefully wrap the warmth of the colours in a soft faded muslin sari of my Aaji and place it back with little clove filled pouches.

The old iron truck, symbolic of strength of three generations of women evoked the latent energy of sentiments that passed through its contents. Most of the heirlooms were passed on to the fourth generation by ma, binding us all in an everlasting bond. Their fragrance still lingered in the old newspapers that lined the trunk just like the aromas that whiffed through my childhood home, cinnamon, clove, nutmeg, star anise, curry leaves and roasted cumin, mint and lime, ripe jackfruit and tamarind, tangy sweet lime and spicy raw mango pickles, my mother’s special seasoning, the laughter, the songs, the stories we shared, the flamboyant gulmohars that set the summer sky aflame and the delicate laburnums that shaded the windows. The fragrant jasmine and parijata flowers weaved in a delicate gajras and the smell of paper – old letters, albums full of memories in monochrome and sepia, notebooks, paper cuttings, old magazine clippings, diaries and most of all, books. 

Wiped off the dust of yesteryears the trunk’s black surface now gleamed invitingly. A smile struggled through the tears as I felt Ma’s gentle embrace. I had outgrown her lap but not her love.

I had missed those days of sheer bliss; I had missed being a daughter but most of all I had missed home.