Selling memories a crime
It was a thriller-of-sorts video game enacted on an unusual sunny holiday. The invasion of a few strangers into my two-bedroom humble apartment turned things upside down and caught me and numerous cockroaches and other parasites, who shared the paradise, off guard. They, a poker-faced scrap paper dealer (raadiwala) and his zero-size better half, proclaimed their mission--- the 'Operation Junk'--- with their missile-paced movements inside the house.
From a raadiwala's point of view, every house has a hidden treasure trove inside. The lion's share of contribution comes from huge heaps of newspapers reminding umpteen tragedies and incidents of historical importance. Adding glitz is magazines with celebrities' speeches that left millions speechless over the past decades and collections of not-so-easy-to-digest articles that you plan to read on a fine day when you are absolutely free. The hurry-burry urban life often makes reading the “bundle of information” every morning a few minute headline-gulping exercise. Books eat up a major portion of storewell cupboards and book racks. Supplements and advertisements run into many glossy paper sheets also pitch in to build an unappealing castle of paper in every household.
Who led the anti-junk gang was my warring spouse who had many a times warned of putting even the house on fire, just because I refused to dispose off even a single piece of paper. Apart from books with fingerprints of countless friends and acquaintances, diaries dated to past years of anarchist bachelorhood occupied an almirah. Handwritten letters reminding the faded love of the yesteryears hid themselves inside the crumbled diaries, presumably with an inferiority complex in the e-mail era. She heartlessly called it junk, and graciously shed tears lamenting over marrying a person who is wedded with newspapers. My valuable possession, which invariably intertwined with my childhood, has indeed received disdainful glances from visitors. The irresistible affection towards newspapers started long before the arrival of the paperless revolution and also my wifeless years. My grandfather, a living encyclopedia of his time, had irrepressible appetite for reading. Books of diverse genre adorned wooden shelves of his spacious library. One could dig out even decade-old newspapers from the neatly wrapped bundles. At his twilight years, much before the sun shows up its bright face on the sky, he could be seen near the gate awaiting the newspaper boy. Holding his fingers, many times I had dreamt of becoming a newspaper boy, whom I thought, the most-wanted person in the life of my grandfather. Old habits die hard. In the passage of time, dailies and books have become my best accompaniment. Many have worn to shreds, but the dusty, archaic papers had a smell of unconditional love that embellished with childhood memories. The battle has already begun. Reminding a video game of Ra-One type, the womenfolk armed with 'Hit' mercilessly pounced on the unwanted occupants. The army of ants and cockroaches who vigorously marched towards other rooms had to relinquish. The innate womanly traits made my wife hate all kinds of harmless worms, and she had a blow-hot, blow-cold relationship with book worms. Newspapers flew in the air like rockets. Some half-naked, half-torn sleazy magazines tumbled out of the closets of bygone teenage days. Nevertheless to say, they got a special treatment more than it deserved from the raadiwala. More such gems might have tucked away inside. I realise discretion is always better than valour. After hours of backbreaking digging, bundles of papers were filled into sacks and cardboard boxes. It's time to bid adieu to the priceless possession. My ladylove, who gleefully sold even my 'hundred years of solitude' to a raadiwala, looked jubilant. Tranquility prevailed all over. True, peace comes at a price. Having lost the paradise I was so used to, I lost sleep that night. Fond memories wiped out. Who will tell the world selling memories is a crime?
It was a thriller-of-sorts video game enacted on an unusual sunny holiday. The invasion of a few strangers into my two-bedroom humble apartment turned things upside down and caught me and numerous cockroaches and other parasites, who shared the paradise, off guard. They, a poker-faced scrap paper dealer (raadiwala) and his zero-size better half, proclaimed their mission--- the 'Operation Junk'--- with their missile-paced movements inside the house.
From a raadiwala's point of view, every house has a hidden treasure trove inside. The lion's share of contribution comes from huge heaps of newspapers reminding umpteen tragedies and incidents of historical importance. Adding glitz is magazines with celebrities' speeches that left millions speechless over the past decades and collections of not-so-easy-to-digest articles that you plan to read on a fine day when you are absolutely free. The hurry-burry urban life often makes reading the “bundle of information” every morning a few minute headline-gulping exercise. Books eat up a major portion of storewell cupboards and book racks. Supplements and advertisements run into many glossy paper sheets also pitch in to build an unappealing castle of paper in every household.
Who led the anti-junk gang was my warring spouse who had many a times warned of putting even the house on fire, just because I refused to dispose off even a single piece of paper. Apart from books with fingerprints of countless friends and acquaintances, diaries dated to past years of anarchist bachelorhood occupied an almirah. Handwritten letters reminding the faded love of the yesteryears hid themselves inside the crumbled diaries, presumably with an inferiority complex in the e-mail era. She heartlessly called it junk, and graciously shed tears lamenting over marrying a person who is wedded with newspapers. My valuable possession, which invariably intertwined with my childhood, has indeed received disdainful glances from visitors. The irresistible affection towards newspapers started long before the arrival of the paperless revolution and also my wifeless years. My grandfather, a living encyclopedia of his time, had irrepressible appetite for reading. Books of diverse genre adorned wooden shelves of his spacious library. One could dig out even decade-old newspapers from the neatly wrapped bundles. At his twilight years, much before the sun shows up its bright face on the sky, he could be seen near the gate awaiting the newspaper boy. Holding his fingers, many times I had dreamt of becoming a newspaper boy, whom I thought, the most-wanted person in the life of my grandfather. Old habits die hard. In the passage of time, dailies and books have become my best accompaniment. Many have worn to shreds, but the dusty, archaic papers had a smell of unconditional love that embellished with childhood memories. The battle has already begun. Reminding a video game of Ra-One type, the womenfolk armed with 'Hit' mercilessly pounced on the unwanted occupants. The army of ants and cockroaches who vigorously marched towards other rooms had to relinquish. The innate womanly traits made my wife hate all kinds of harmless worms, and she had a blow-hot, blow-cold relationship with book worms. Newspapers flew in the air like rockets. Some half-naked, half-torn sleazy magazines tumbled out of the closets of bygone teenage days. Nevertheless to say, they got a special treatment more than it deserved from the raadiwala. More such gems might have tucked away inside. I realise discretion is always better than valour. After hours of backbreaking digging, bundles of papers were filled into sacks and cardboard boxes. It's time to bid adieu to the priceless possession. My ladylove, who gleefully sold even my 'hundred years of solitude' to a raadiwala, looked jubilant. Tranquility prevailed all over. True, peace comes at a price. Having lost the paradise I was so used to, I lost sleep that night. Fond memories wiped out. Who will tell the world selling memories is a crime?
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