Letters of Gratitude (LOG)2: Cardboard Boxes and Conversations

I moved into this house a few months after Sanju’s death.

For the first several days, the house belonged to cardboard boxes. There was barely enough floor to walk from one room to another. The crockery lay wrapped in old newspapers and bubble wrap. Books from different phases of my life were stacked in uneven piles. The masala box had burst open during the move, and its fragrance lingered in the air long after everything else had been unpacked. Nothing was where it was supposed to be.

Cheeku (name changed) spent those first couple of weeks with my mother. She wanted me to settle into the house before bringing him home. Every afternoon, my brother arrived carrying lunch that she or my sister-in-law had prepared. We never had to think about what we would eat. The only thing we made ourselves was tea.

Sangeeta stayed with me through those first couple of weeks.

We never counted cartons or wondered how much work remained. We simply opened the next one.

Every box carried a story.

A sari reminded me of where I had worn it. A book took me back to another season of life. A small decorative piece brought back a holiday. An old kitchen utensil became the beginning of another conversation.

Then came the white doormats.

One appeared, and then another. Before long there was a neat little pile in one corner of the room. I laughed because I had forgotten how many Sanju had bought over the years.

We talked as we unpacked, and we unpacked as we talked.

Sometimes I would begin telling Sangeeta something funny Sanju had once said. We would laugh together. Then I would stop halfway through the story. The realisation that he was no longer there would return without warning.

Sometimes we wept together. Sometimes neither of us said anything.

After a while, one of us would put a small saucepan on the gas, make tea, open the biscuit tin, and we would return to the next carton.

That was how those days passed.

By the time the last box had been emptied, the books were standing on their shelves and the kitchen had found its rhythm.

I still cannot remember where every object finally found its place.

I remember you.

Dear Sangeeta,

Thank you for staying.

Thank you for listening to stories that surfaced from forgotten objects, for making endless cups of tea, for sharing silences that never felt uncomfortable, and for helping me through those first uncertain days without ever asking for recognition.

With lots of love and gratitude,

Shaweta