Where did my space go?

Till some years ago, among the most awaited times of the year used to be the seasonal sales for which the household would wait with bated breath, carting home armloads of year-old fashions to stuff into already overflowing wardrobes. The children did it because brands were still new and aspirational in India, and my wife did it so she didn’t feel left out among her kitty party peers. Having acquired several such outfits, or shoes, she would refuse to actually use them “because my taste is better than theirs”, she would mock her friends, rendering the pile of clothes useless.

When they were young, my wife would think nothing of purloining cupboard space in the children’s rooms, but as they grew older, I found my jackets and shirts being squeezed out by strange looking clothes on hangers that I never saw my wife wear – unless she led a secret life to which I was not privy. Since that seemed unlikely, I could only imagine that she was hoarding these clothes in preparation for some future garment apocalypse. At any rate, the number of outfits grew by mass and volume till it seemed they would overwhelm us.

My own contribution to the increasing number of objects came by way of books that lined cupboards, occupied tables, took up floor space, served as tabletops – and generally threatened to drown us in fonts and folios. Being somewhat better organised than members of my family, I took things into my hands. Additional space was leased, bookshelves designed and a library set up in the basement. I finally had a room for myself, a place to think, write, work. But the idyll lasted barely a week.

First, my wife dispatched extra linen to the basement, then unused crockery and other kitchen paraphernalia. Empty cartons, packing cases and bags-thatmight-be-of-use-some-day followed. Winter clothes, pairs of shoes, electronic gadgets, useless gifts piled up over the years, worn-out towels and duvets, excess grocery, photographs and paintings, stuff my wife had got in her trousseau, stuff she planned to give our daughter in her trousseau, a television that still worked and a toaster that didn’t, fabric for upholstery, old magazines and older journals, reusable glasses and recyclable cutlery, bubblewrap for wrapping stuff and stuff wrapped in bubblewrap, lamps, shades and bulbs that could never be found when needed, a wheelchair, collectibles, odd bits of furniture soon converted the study into a dump.

Having reconciled to the inevitable, my wife and I waited for what should have been logical – our grown children to move out and make their own lives. “You work so far from home,” my wife advised our daughter, “you should live closer to where you work.” No go. “You’ll love your independence,” I said to my son — only he didn’t and, in fact, got married and brought his bride home. “I worked hard all these years so we could have separate bedrooms,” I cribbed to my wife, “but Gennxt just won’t move out.” “All my life I wanted separate bathrooms,” my wife said philosophically, “but you don’t always get what you want.” Not only is that luxury denied to us, it appears the kids are now laying claim to more storage space than they currently command. I worry for our future — my wife’s and mine.