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.
I told Daddyji that we found something that looked like a family tree. He unfolded it, leaned forward, adjusted his glasses, and read aloud in his soft Punjabi-inflected voice: “Shajara-e-Nasab, Bahl Baradari, Qasba Urmar, Zilla Hoshiarpur.” The words came easily to him, as though they lived somewhere familiar in his mouth.
My paternal was about thirteen (we can only estimate) when her sister and she got married to two brothers and moved away from Sukkar for the very first time. This brass dabbi was one of the many objects she and her sister brought along to their marital house in Larkana.
A cookbook that dates back to the year 1986 is filled with my maternal grandmother’s handwritten recipes. This diary was her companion throughout her life, but after she died in 2023, it became dearer to my mother. Now, in the age of ordering in and eating out, it has found new relevance amongst my mother and her sisters
In 1972, a family friend gifted this Nutrine box to my maternal uncle for his birthday, and originally it was filled with toffees. As it emptied, like the fate of most chocolate or biscuit tins in South Asian families, my grandmother filled it with sewing accessories – spools of thread brought by my great-grandfather from Singapore many years earlier in 1953.
This is my great-grandfather’s journal. He wrote in it over six decades, from the 1920s to the 1970s, and the book reflects that history. He wrote these entries “for remembrance, a brief description of how we live our lives”.
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