Daraz (closet)
My mom had a closet, a cream yellow, vintage wooden one with lines of brown wood designing it on the edge. It was the kind that opened like a two-part door and it had keys.
As a child, whenever mom opened her closet, all my siblings would come together, leaping with joy, screaming each other’s names, announcing that she’s opening her closet. With all that excitement we would ask her , “Mom, what’s inside that box? Could you open it please? And what’s inside that intriguing and fascinating bag? I want to take a look.” It would be like an auction.
With time we had learned all the color codes and different things, sections that were for particular things residing inside her closet.
Behind the rack that hung the clothes lay the deep layers of other stuff, hidden within the darkness.
And inside those bags and boxes were countless memories, belongings, souvenirs, and stories. Sometimes a river of memories would flood through the collection of thick photo albums, and other times materials that were broken had to be stitched or mended together.
And within the closet were also the broken dreams and aspirations of both my mom and dad. All the things my mother had preserved with care and love towards him and their marriage. Past, present, and future—an endless time within those doors. So much so that, when my grandmother and father returned from their trip to America to visit my uncle who, back in the day, was living in Colorado to pursue higher education, they had brought back a small bottle filled with seawater and colorful stones. Since the ocean had never touched Nepal, that seawater held so much importance for us. “That very seawater has carried me across seven seas, towards the fulfillment of my dreams. The water in that little glass bottle has not yet dried; even now it quietly rests in a corner of my mother’s closet, even now when Kaka has passed away.”
On some days, she would slip out my father’s shadow, hidden in her pockets and behind closed doors, and show them to me. My mother, with her aching heart, would cry out—asking if I could erase the red lipstick of another woman, if I could mend their marriage, if I could make my dad faithful towards her again. I had no answers of my own—only the silence of my father to carry. And with her rage she would claim, “Your father is a worthless man.” For I did not have answers to her aching heart, I chose to agree with whatever she would say, as a promise that I would always be by her side no matter what.
On the brighter side, the closet held an abundance of beauty and creativity: a variety of hair clips, jewelry, makeup, pencils, stitching and crocheting materials, crafting materials—whatever we needed, she held it all. All things meant for creating, beautifying, nuturing and mending.
And then, of course, the tokens of beauty—clips, hairbands, every little thing—all tucked into my mother’s drawer. Rows of sunglasses sparkled there, in every style imaginable: men’s, women’s, even unisex. Bags gathered from home and abroad, perfumes too, of designer brands, found their place among her treasures.
The closet removed all shadows of my heart and adorned it with beauty!!
