I know my grandfather, Mahboob, only through remnants, but perhaps remnants are not small things. A ring, a letter, a postcard, a photograph: each carries a version of him, and each is made more alive by the stories my grandmother, his Dilruba has attached to it.
Death transforms ordinary objects into carriers of memory. After the passing of my grandparents, their photographs, clothes, watches, suitcases, and handwritten notes became more than just belongings, they became emotional markers of time.
The Konkani Sambharḍe (or Sāmarḍe) is the regional wooden spice container of the western coast of India. It is carved from a single block of wood, with the compartments hollowed out one by one. The craftsmanship isn’t decorative; it’s structural. The wood has lasted for decades. The beauty of the box is that it breathes – it lets the spices stay dry without trapping moisture inside.
This stone-carved vase was purchased by my maternal grandmother’s paternal grandparents in the 1920s from Benaras. It has been in my family for around five generations, travelled across countries, multiple cities and wars.
I was fifteen when I first saw Mani. Twenty-five when I found him again. Rummaging through the wardrobe, I came across a box. Not a wooden chest of treasures, but a measly cardboard box filled with junk. I’m convinced that every household has one.
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