It’s one of those
humid summer afternoons. Outside, the sun is at its hottest best, blazing down
on the earth and indiscriminately scorching all that lies without cover. An
afternoon stillness pervades the atmosphere and the surroundings seem to have
been lulled into a drowsy silence.
I
lie on my back on the floor of my living room. Feet slightly apart and arms
spread out, I resemble a child poised to make a snow angel. Only, there is no
snow. Instead, my back is damp with sweat, my brow feels moist and a droplet of
perspiration trickles down the side of my face, into my ear. The hot, heavy air
seems to have paralyzed me with a lethargy I can’t shake off. So, I lie still,
like the leaves on the potted plants outside my window.
Flat
on my back, I stare up at the ancient fan protruding from the ceiling. It is
clanking away to glory, giving me very little breeze and I wonder for the
thousandth time, why it is still there! In the past, I have often protested
against the use of this ancient piece of machinery. I think it unfair that I
have to rely upon a barely functional object to save me from the dizzying
summer heat.
“It’s
a rusty, clanking object masquerading as a fan!” I have informed my mom several times. “Why
can’t we get a new one?”
“Because
it’s durable.” She has replied, as many times. “Not like the ones they make
nowadays. Besides, let’s not forget all that ‘old-world charm’ inspired by antiques.”
“Its
antiqueness has rendered it incompetent, not charming!” I shoot back. As a
practical person who believes that desirability lies in function and not in
form, especially for things like a fan, this is a fact I have never failed to
point out.
Such
is the ‘old-fan’ argument that is taken up with much enthusiasm every summer.
Many intelligent points are made in its favor, which are subsequently countered
by equally intelligent points. However, despite these multifarious brainy
debates, the old fan continues to stay stubbornly fixed to the ceiling of my
living room to this very day.
On a more
philosophical note, however, I realize that this creaking, groaning fan has gotten
me thinking about the attachment we have for all things old and aging. We tend
to display an unexplainable fondness for things that have stood the test of
time. Faded photographs, a great-grandmother’s crumpled wedding dress, a
dog-eared, discolored diary. Sometimes, we cling to the most trivial, unimportant
things. For the unknowing eye, these are merely objects that need to be gotten
rid of, useless clutter in need of clearing. But, for those who have been acquainted
with the stories behind these objects, have been privy to the experiences and
emotions they have inspired, have overheard the hushed family secrets that have
been passed down through generations, these become much more than inanimate objects.
They take on the personality and aura of a time long gone past. Colored with nostalgia,
they remind us of places, people and times that have gone by. By making these
perishing remnants a part of our lives, we establish a link to a time we will
never be part of, develop a bond with people we will never see. We cling to
these fragments of our past as they become the only connection we have to a
history we can never relive, but yet, have heard so much about and feel a strong belonging to. These material ties bind us to our fleeting pasts and let us partake in those wonderful, mysterious, unforgettable stories. In this alone, lies their specialness.
Can
the allure of novelty wipe out our need for this connection? Can newness make
us want to disengage ourselves from our pasts? I don’t think so. That’s
probably why the old fan is still fixed to the ceiling of my living room. And
that’s probably why it’ll always be.
