A squarish walnut wood box that has been in our family for more than 70 years. About 11 inches long, 10 inches wide, and a little more than 3 inches deep. Unknown date of purchase. Likely hand-carved by an unknown artisan in what used to be the riyasat of Jammu and Kashmir in colonial India.
An old album of photographs, likely taken between 1970 and 1985, is one of the few things I keep in my room from my grandmother’s working years as a Gram Sevika in Kakopothar. Somehow, it has become what I hold onto most.
I have met my grandfather through his quirks and collectibles – books ranging from the theatre of the absurd to Rumi’s philosophical ruminations, silver votives carved with exquisite care, sea shells with his and his wife’s names engraved on them, Dutch wall paper borders extending to 24 feet long, ebony wood chillums never used, and playing cards printed with astounding clarity. My entire childhood was spent finding little treasures all over the house, and invariably, when asked, I was told they belonged to my grandfather, CR Das.
What I really enjoy about both the carpets is that they are clearly handmade. There are mistakes. They’re not symmetrical, the spacing isn’t perfect, she kind of runs out of space at one point and then squeezes everything together, which all of us, when we’ve written in notebooks, have done when you run out of space on one line.
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