The art of losing things
My wife calls it the Bermuda Triangle. This is the drawer that has important things like files that have important things like birth certificates, the pass from Rahul Dravid’s last international cricket match at Lord’s, degree certificates, a letter from John Updike (which may be a fake, but I don’t want to find out), bills from local bookshops, a bottle cap and visiting cards among other things.
“If you want to get rid of anything, put it in there, and it disappears,” says my wife with the tired air of one who has said it a thousand times before, and no longer thinks it is funny.
She’s right. I can no longer find any of the items detailed above – except the bottle cap, which somehow survived and is now a piece of history for having done so.
Creative clutter, I call it, giving it a spin that might fool people who like alliterative axcuses or elliterative excuses. But that doesn’t help when you need to find an important letter or an invoice or a driving licence. For years I have been putting out the story that I don’t drive because I find it beneath me intellectually, but the fact is I can never find my driving licence. I gave up driving, rather than have to look for it in my Bermuda Triangle.
Before flying off for a holiday, our family bonds in a unique way – each one of us is assigned a geographical region of the house and given a couple of hours to find our passports.
I am happy to report that the Bermuda Triangle is not unique to my desk or set of drawers at home. I find the same bottomless pit exists in London or New York or any of the more advanced countries where we happen to holiday. There is thus a travel-to bonding and a return-from bonding.
Sometimes I wake up in a sweat at night wondering what would happen
The Bermuda Triangle is not unique tomy desk at home; it exists in all the countries we holiday in
if my drawer began to return all the things it had swallowed up. Suddenly I would find the geography answer paper of a test I did in grade 3, shoes I had lost in school, a girlfriend or two I haven’t met since we parted ways in college, a book telling me that clutter was not good and perhaps the pet cat who was given up for lost some 30 years ago.
Luckily, it is now impossible to open a single drawer, as each is jammed with stuff in its own unique way. When my time comes, I shall have a haircut, brush my teeth, wear my best shirt and jump into one of these – and disappear forever amongst the bills and letters and certificates and bottle cap.