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The collectors

By Nickunj Malik - Feb 25,2015 - Last updated at Feb 25,2015

Someone once told me that at every party there are two kinds of people. There are those who want to stay on till the very end, and the ones that want to go home right after dinner. The trouble is, they are usually married to each other. 

My advancing years have given me a relevant excuse for forgetting the names of people within the first few minutes of being introduced to them. Old age has its advantages, for sure. But the coincidence is, where savers and throwers are concerned, they are also generally bound in the same web of holy matrimony. So, if one partner is an accumulator, the other is most likely to be, for want of a better term, a donor. 

The hoarders like to hoard stuff. Whether it is old clothes, paper bags, plastic wrappers or nylon rope, any item of use or misuse, has to be collected and stored. One never knows when it can come in handy, is the motto they live by. The dispensers on the other hand, give away paraphernalia at the drop of a hat. Sometimes they do not even wait for that because they have gifted the proverbial fedora as well.

In my household, we have our work cut out to perfection. While one of us does the gathering, the other contributes to the scattering. Being slightly unfaithful to my tribe of sisters — the happy homemaker type of housewives who believe in collecting, I like to do the distributing. Too much of stored stuff gives me the heebie-jeebies and seeing a pile of empty shoeboxes can make me break out in hives. Believe me, it’s true. 

The minute I unpack anything, the packaging goes into the dustbin. Gentlemen’s shirts, especially the formal ones, have so much of unnecessary cardboard and plastic around it anyway. There are also those drawing pins that keep the cuff in place and pulling them out can give one bloody fingers. 

In fact, I have an unwritten rule that if I buy four sets of anything new, whether it is slippers, shawls or outfits, I give away four old ones to the nearest charity. My wardrobe, therefore, contains the same number of clothes at any given time. Well, more or less. On very rare occasions I relent and keep a treasured bit of clothing for marginally longer but if I have not worn it for 10 months at a stretch, it goes into the charity basket. Instantly! 

Like in most happy marriages, my husband does not agree with me. He meticulously stashes things and saves them for a particular rainy day. When that one might arrive unexpectedly and surprise us no one knows. 

I was eyeing his oldest tattered T-shirt for the last five years. It was more than 15 years old, faded, and had misshapen arms and large oil stain that no amount of scrubbing could remove. I was waiting for him to go out of town so that I could give it away. Last week, I finally got rid of it. 

“Have you seen my navy T?” my spouse asked the minute he got back. 

“Nope,” I mumbled. 

“I want to wear it,” he announced. 

“Marhaba!” greeted Ahmed, our gardener. 

“Is that my shirt?” my husband was aghast. 

“This one is light blue,” I corrected him. 

“It was dark indigo,” he said. 

“Yes to start off with,” I agreed. 

“And now?” he asked. 

“Now it’s with its new owner,” I smiled. 

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