Of funny things like 'nostalgia consciously sought after' and fond memories of morning colds

OK, so I don't know how to title my posts. But I don't know how to fix it. So I continue off like that only..

There is something to be said about middle class Indian homes. The 'showcase' in the living room for example. Every house has one. Usually, a scoop into the wall, with tiny shelves made by wooden platforms that have been painted in bright off white oil paint which has yellowed over time. Yellowed in all the areas where some item has not been placed.

And this lovely phenomenon called 'The Showcase' houses within itself all sorts of things. Cupids made from putty with pink painted faces and red lipstick, posing on a pedestal with cake icing decorations on it; toys from the Golu that was kept last year; plastic dollar store delights from the Am-ay-reek-ah; toys from the balloon wala's stall during the last oh-so-cool trip to Chowpatty beach in the 'Bambayee' where the pattis and mamis dealt with the wanton winds that were upsetting the perfect pleats on their kanjeevarams; a random decorative bottle opener because what other use could it be put to in a teetotaller household that did not even stock Thumsup in its fridge; an old transistor that all of us would have learnt to fawn upon lovingly despite having been born after the damn thing stopped working, because experiencing appa's nostalgia for purely nostalgia's sake is a good thing; old Barbie dolls with half the hair pulled out because your toddler sis wanted her own space in the grand show that we put up for everyone to see.

Except, my house didn't have a showcase. My father disliked the concept of it at frighteningly allergic levels. So amma, me and the thangai would find random window sills and corners on corner tables to put our stuff up.

I always wanted a showcase in my house. OK, maybe I didn't then, but now I do. I want one with proper fake mahogany painted wood with glass sliding door holding the treasures inside. Ones that we would have to battle with to open, put up with the un-oiled screeches and ensure that no truant child will stick one of her pickwick or big babool free stickers onto the glass.

I mean everything else about being middle class is hotch potch warmth. A product of double income parents who live in a secure box inside which they lovingly bring up two brown pigtailed ragamuffins with oversized spectacles. A space that welcomes the comforting joy of hoarding, for hoarding's sake. Hoarding for that one Sunday when we have the energy to turn everything upside down, throw away broken bits of random plastic that we can't recognise anymore, for dust ridden asthma attacks, back breaking cleaning and finding use for that old t-shirt we've rolled up and stashed away into a hole for this precise day.

Being middle class is being squirrels that pick up one grain at a time, bring it home and keep it all around you till you are coocooned. Except each grain we pick up carries with it the mark of the moment it was picked up, the mood for which it was picked up, the emotion that it was supposed to represent in our little straight edged hole in the ground. Each grain has its own size, its own colour, its own texture; all individual pieces made purely for their own individual value, standing in their own right and collectively offensive in their presence with the others - the furniture, upholstery, unmatched bed covers and pillow covers, the cutlery, crockery, every damn thing!! Its like their collective loudness and coarsely jumbled texture contribute to the warmth that only the dwellers inside share. And no one else will. So, why can't I put it all up on a bonsai version pedestal and say, "Looky, here's my jumbled assorment. Ain't it pwetty??"

I absolutely LOVE living like this. Which is why well orchestra-ed bedrooms and living rooms bore me.