Off the Cuff: Cherish at your own risk

Some of us have museum-like homes where every inch of space is crowded with collectibles from different parts of the world. Each one tells a tale — and by the time visitors cross one square foot of space, they are confused beyond recollection of any outstanding piece.

That was not the type of home I wanted. I admired houses with a few well-placed and well-spaced curios that gave them character and made visitors curious about the owners and how and why they acquired each piece.

I grew up in a minimalist home. Our parents had neither the means nor the desire to acquire curios. They gave a couple of paintings pride of place and with bowls of freshly cut flowers, our house was ‘dressed up' for all occasions. There were a few decorative pieces handed down from our grandparents, but these were too precious to be displayed frequently and as each one of the children set up their own homes, Mother handed them over for the next generation to keep intact.

Being the last one in the line-up, there was very little left for me to carry off but I didn't mind a bit. I wanted an uncluttered home. Where I didn't have to spend an extra moment dusting or washing and polishing. Where our dog could race up and down without fear of what fell with each wag of her tail. Where our son could pull at tablecloths as he toddled around and I didn't have to worry about what would come crashing down on him.

For a few years, all this was possible. No one noticed that there were no memorabilia when they came over for parties. A table laden with food — and plates, glasses and dishes everywhere — made it unlikely that anyone would think of decorative items or the lack of them. Certainly, we were too busy to notice it ourselves.

Then, as sisters and brothers and cousins went to foreign lands, gifts began to find their way in. A flamenco dancer from Spain, a wooden shoe from The Netherlands, a goblet from Germany, vases, crystal bowls ... they wormed themselves in and could not be discarded because each represented the warmth of a thought from someone we cared about. We should have built a wall cabinet and put everything there and forgotten about it — but we didn't. Just for one or two items? Not necessary, we thought.

No clutter

The years passed. We started travelling too. We picked up just one piece from each place. A bell, a plaque, a tile — and we placed them at strategic places here and there around the house. Not too much, we thought. Keep to the minimum. We don't want clutter. We don't want to spend time dusting and cleaning.

For every one thing that comes out, put another one back into a cupboard, we decided. A simple principle — but in a household like ours, one that is impossible to implement.

"Not niece's koru artwork — that stays in the eastern window to catch the morning sunlight!" said I.

"Not the Mizo cane hut or the Khasi bamboo vases — they represent my cultural heritage," said the husband.

"Not the Batmobile on my table," said the son. "It gives character to my room even when I'm not around!"

Obviously, without realising it, each one of us had grown attached to some things — and now, suddenly, there is too much around us. No open spaces, no clear tabletops, no empty shelves.

And we can neither put away nor give away. Everything had become precious, almost sacred.

So watch out for sentiment as collectibles are acquired — they have a way of taking hold of you instead of the other way around.

Cheryl Rao is a journalist based in India.