Godrej and Steely Sentiments

This is a confession. I want to knock down AND hitch up the almirah of my nightmares. Read on to get confused!

Dear friends,

I am in a conundrum. I have been for a while. One could argue that all of my 30 years have been one form of crisis after another, barely resolved. So how is this one different? Good question, the imaginary voices of my 23 subscribers speaking in unison.

I have a room back at my mother’s place. Although calling it just a room feels like I’m downplaying its significance. I fought with my blood, flesh, and tears to carve out a space for myself in that house. If it were up to me, I’d call it a Victory Suite, but I don’t want to mislead you. It isn’t luxurious or grand. A room is just a room, but it is also a hug, no? When you go through a life-altering heartbreak, you need the four walls to hold you because the only person who could heal you broke you. A room is just a room, but it is also a blanket, no? When you have a room of your own, you have a ceiling which, in the dark (and in delirious sleeplessness), can look like the night sky itself. It can set the fledgling soul in you free. And doesn’t that just warm your cold heart, right up?

Even though that room, my room, symbolizes a small liberty, I have come to see it as somewhat constricting in recent days. And this, my friend, is where my conundrum lies. Among other things in my room is a huge, seemingly unmovable Godrej almirah. It’s so old and tattered that it looks like it has survived multiple robbery attempts. Although, if there were an actual robbery attempt, the steel almirah is famously burglar AND fire-proof. So much so that apparently the steel safes were the only thing that survived an explosion deemed one of Mumbai’s biggest disasters.

As you can tell from that fun quip above, I stayed true to this thoughtlessly named newsletter. Instead of finding a suitable corner for the cupboard in the storeroom, I spiraled into its history. The Baader-Meinhof phenomenon of finding the steel cupboard in almost every house I stepped into after deciding I needed to do something about the wardrobe didn’t help. And what made it even worse was the state these poor Godrejs were in (imagine sad malnourished children, but harder, bigger and more rectangular), almost always tucked into the darkest corners away from the modern-aesthetic-seeking eyes of the guests. My heart went out to the poor inanimate bastards, especially when I imagined how these cupboards probably made it into our homes.

In the 70s, Godrej ran a series of very popular ad campaigns. The taglines were – Saajan ke aangan mein pehla kadam, phoole ye bagiyaan mehke har dum; aao miljul kar jahaan basaaein, hum kuch aur jagah banaaein. (Rough translation: As you take the first step into your spouse’s home and forever blossom its gardens. Come let’s get you settled in first; let’s make you some space first.)

And how well it worked! Isn’t that how my Godrej, your Godrej, all our Godrejs came to occupy space in our lives? The marketing campaign slowly evolved to encompass not just the bride but almost all members of the family. (Watch this compilation of ads that almost look like a series of homemade videos of a growing family! Fascinating no?)

Almost half a century later, these steel cupboards, whichever sad corner they might be standing in, represent the struggle (and hopefully the overcoming) of a woman’s trousseau and troubles.

Although my mother didn’t store any major treasures in its safes (mostly because we didn’t have many to begin with but also because my own trousseau is her trust issue with the world), she did stow inside things I considered most precious to me—FAKE FUNKY EARRINGS. For the majority of my life, I acquiesced to just admiring them, holding them, and sometimes even losing them. It wasn’t until my twenties that I dared to put some of them on. And the day I decided, you know what, my face can handle two little things dangling by its side, guess where I found the jhumkas waiting for me? In my fucking Godrej!!

So by now, you’ve probably already realized I wrote all of this to say that I have gotten emotionally attached to a shabby piece of furniture I need to get rid of. I needed to vent out a very legitimate fear that the day I get the energy (oh, the day I get the energy—the radical utopia I dream to wake up to every single night) to actually move my mountainous monstrous treasure trove, I will, alas, break it.

I know it’s stupid. The thing survived colonialism (Godrej was established in 1897!! WTF) and explosions, but you know that’s just how highly I think of my ability to fuck things up.