That blue steel wardrobe of yore

Furniture is what makes our homes complete. They not only add aesthetically to our surroundings, but also hold a special place in our lives with time. Like that recliner where you love to sip coffee on a rainy day or that sofa where whole family cuddles to watch favourite TV shows.

The house where I lived before moving abroad have been no different. But amid all the usual pieces of furniture like bed sets, sofas and closets, one tall steel wardrobe always held a special place in my home.

In the ancestral house where I was born and spent my early childhood days, that wardrobe sat in a corner few meters from the bedroom door. It was blue painted with silver handle and key hole. It had multiple keys which I never knew how they worked. Even as it stood out somewhat awkward from the overall wooden theme of the room, it always got special treatment.

Its speciality came mostly from the contents it stored. Besides the important documents, it took care of our family camera, our collection of photographs and expensive clothes. A small locker inside it was used for jewellery and money.

As children, my sister and I would never be allowed to open it. Its keys were always placed secretly. It opened only at the time of need or for cleaning. We would leave no chance to try and sift through its contents whenever mother cleaned it.

What fascinated us most were mother’s colourful dresses which we rarely had chance to touch. We would move around draping her scarves and shawls before quickly being asked to wind up. There were some packets and boxes which we weren’t allowed to touch.

When we moved homes, twice, the wardrobe moved with us. It always stood a mismatch to its surroundings. But its worth at my home stood unchanged. It was given the safest place in the house considering the valuables it contained.

With passing time, new things were added to its shelves and sometimes it would fall short of space. But we never let it go. Mother would adjust things here and there to make it fit for all.

The wardrobe, which as per my parents is over 40 years old, still stands in my parents’ bedroom. Even now a complete mismatch. Its paint has started peeling, its door screeching louder. There have been many additions and deduction to its stuff. But what I loved most from its contents are my school report cards and certificates.

Every time I go back home, I always open that wardrobe with the same curiosity and care. Our old family camera still hangs on its peg inside. There are bags containing our collection of photographs. The expensive clothes still occupy its main shelf. The locker serves the same purpose as before.

But what attracts me most now is that one plastic bag that holds my journey right from my nursery days. The pink, green, and yellow colour cards with name of school printed are like a window to my childhood. Over the years mother took every care to preserve them for us to look back at our precious days.

I sit down with the packet and carefully open the report cards. I read through my marks and grades I scored from the early days in school. My top score in history shows my interest in the past stories and culture that I still hold. I always hated physics; I tell myself glancing through my marks.

The certificates awarded for performance in sports, science quiz or arts gives a strange sense of accomplishments. My trophies and souvenirs I got in school still stand safely on the top shelf of the same wardrobe.

The most interesting are the comments written by teachers on the report cards that always read the same, “very talkative girl.”

I laugh at myself as days of my school run through my mind. I gather all the report cards and carefully put them in the bag and back into the wardrobe. I close it and with the sharp screech of its door comes mother’s voice from downstairs warning, “did you put everything you touched properly. Don’t mess or lose anything. Hand me the keys when done.”

—Sana Altaf is a Dubai-based freelance writer.