I have the habit of scribbling every small thing in my notepad. Now, this is bad because, I develop a certain kind of attachment to each of this notepad that I pain when I have to discard them. Today I am discarding one.
Tomorrow I will have to discard another. I have a collection of letters. From long time back. They are like trash in a way because they occupy space. I like to keep my room as open as possible – meaning, I don’t like having so many furniture stuffed in a room. So I was thinking if I should throw the collection of letters, diaries, journals and greeting cards I have.
No, I did not throw my diaries, journals and letters. I just pushed away my thought of getting rid of them. One thought says, I must get rid of them now, rather than have people read my inner thoughts after I die. And another thought says, I must keep them because what people make of them after my death won’t matter to me. Whatever, I’m keeping them for now. I threw away a few rough papers already – on which I wrote some of the passing fancies and thoughts.
When I went home on a break during my college days, as the bus traveled through Namling (between Bumthang and Monggar), I would fear what might happen to my diaries if I died. It would push me too far that the fear would almost consume me. But in a way, I feel, it would be only good that people will come to know me better, they will remember me better and they will have something to remember me by. Naturally it will be your beloved who will have all these personal belongings of yours and I think in a way, it will really help him/her live without you. I know it doesn’t work that way in our culture. The moment someone dies, he/she is no longer with us. Their thought in fact invokes more fear than fond memories. Now, I don’t want that to happen to me.
But, I would want to write love letters to my hubby, if I’m dying before him. I don’t want this lowly thought to come to me. I was just meaning to say that diaries become too much a part of you that you put so much importance in them – you see life spring from them; you talk to them and then, your thought about parting with them in a way tears you apart just as if you are stashing away a part of you.