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Postcards, Barbie dolls, key chains, stamps, pendants... why do we ever collect them? Is the sentimental value they hold far greater than their face value?  Varshini Murali tries to answer

How do we store our memories? I had mine tucked away into a shoe-box at first, but when that became too cumbersome to carry around every time I changed base, I put them away in a Ziploc bag.Today, they’re snuggled deep inside my cupboard, perhaps only to be looked at when I move once again.

What is the point of this space-occupying activity, you may ask. Isn’t it enough that these moments from a time that once was, remain in our heads? Or at the very least, in photographs? Why do we, or at least some of us, collect and keep scraps from our present, envisioning them as symbolic doors to our past? The presence or absence of such collectibles do not confirm or deny who we once were. But, why still, do we hold on?

Postcards from places I’ve been, letters from friends far away, ticket stubs from movie-reunions, theme parks, stadia and more: these otherwise ordinary records of everyday happenings are accorded with more significance than they actually hold. I remember my mother’s quizzical expression when I first told her of my ‘attachment’ to random tickets and passes, collected over the last couple of years. Never one to get too attached or to live too long in the past, she struggled (and failed) to understand how my collection wasn’t reflective of me refusing to let go, but was more a tool to help sum up, once in a while, the journey I’ve had so far and the road ahead that still remains.

Looking at my assorted collection of anything and everything under the sun, that would help remind me of where I had once been, I begin to wonder about the kind of things we do collect, consciously or otherwise, and why. As I mull over this idea, I begin to ask around and I’m surprised by the answers I eventually receive. A cousin tells me of a colleague, who collects cola cans from different countries, and another, who holds on to movie ticket-stubs (Ah! My soulmate!). A message appears in my inbox informing me of a growing Ganesha collection that might some day become a museum. Ganesha reminds me of my own home. As I look around, I’m reminded of my parents’ own Ganesha-collecting craze that came to a standstill a few years back, but only for want of space.
Since then, a new house is being built (who’s crazy now, mother?).

Clearly, stamps and coins have become passé. Impressive, they surely are, but perhaps not quite as unique as having something a bit more personal, a bit more representative, or even, just slightly wacky or out of the ordinary. Some make for heartwarming connections. Others stand out for their simple yet innovative appeal. Take for example, one of Akshaya’s globetrotting roommates, who collects recipes of local dishes from wherever she goes. Having shared space, and perhaps even bonded over food, Akshaya adds, “She associates people with food, and she’ll always associate me with khichdi.”

Certainly, a delectable way to document the people in one’s past and present, ensuring that memories of them linger on despite distance or time. Aside from becoming a talented cook, of course.

Akshaya herself confides that of all the things she could have collected, she took to collecting post-its that people left behind for her. Living the routine life of home and work, and perhaps at times, work and more work, she realised that she had begun to relish in some non-work related post-its that people had left behind as messages on her desk. Be it the raita in the office fridge, waiting patiently to be shared, or a yellow note asking her to call the messenger along when she went to get her cuppa, she currently holds all the messages that stuck by her through thick and thin in a carefully-packed box. Why post-its, I question, to which she reasons, “Collecting post-its is my way of being sentimental probably because I’m usually not overtly so. But as a bunch of notes in a bag, it’s just significant of how much love people have shown me and that makes me happy.”

And yet, for some others, such collections are nothing more than what they appear to be — souvenirs. I remember a close friend’s collection of pendants, each of which representing a place she’d visited: a dragon-shaped pendant from Hong Kong, a falcon that hung from her silver chain that reminded her of a family trip to Cairo and a small blue slipper-charm that took her back to her days in Australia as a student on an exchange programme, to name a few. I hurriedly make a Skype call to see if there have been any recent additions, and somewhere in the hour we spent rambling about memorable collections, she adds, “I try to pick pendants that I can use as charms to represent the country I’ve visited...usually it’s of some significance to the culture of the country.”

My cousin chips in with details of his key chain collection. But as I understand, these are simply meant to deck up the showcase (or the pin-up board, as the case may be). As his wife elaborates, “At most, they are representative of each place he’s visited. He selects them on the basis of their uniqueness or aesthetic appeal. On a recent trip visiting family in Orissa, he had picked up a key chain which may not have been visually striking, but was appealing enough to him due to the fact that it was made from a bull’s horn.”

Key chains remind me of another friend I had met in the UK, who owns just as colourful a collection. But, almost paradoxically, his key rings, purchased from around the world, double up as “a lovely hard drive for the beautiful memories we have.” Collecting these key chains also seems to have enabled a process of introspection, as he continues, “Looking back on the collection reminds me of some great people I’ve met, the mistakes I’ve made and how I’ve changed since then…I’ve grown, as has my collection.”

Listening to the stories that many have to tell of their own collections, it becomes clear that many of us like to bring back a bit of our own travels with us, as if to attest that we have actually been there, and done that. For an emotional nut such as myself, it may extend to a little more than that; these collectibles trigger off a chain of thoughts, much like the rewind button on the remote control that lets you watch a scene that you particularly liked or the whole movie, if you prefer.

Rummaging through my own ‘memory bag’, if I may call it that, I find a well-sized deck of postcards. An alarmingly large number of these, I realise, are a record of my own travels, the sights I’ve seen and some cherished moments of laughter, and sometimes, tears.  As I briefly flip through them all, I notice the scribble I’ve made on the back of these, quickly summing up my visit: where I had been, when I had been, what I had seen, who I had been with and what I had liked.  Not elaborate prose mind you, but random phrases to remind me of a moment in the past, and the people it held.  Sunburnt moments spent under a harsh London sun, watching a cricket game at the Lords with my father. Another moment of disbelief as Harsha Bhogle walked past us, towards the bulbous, glassy media centre. Time spent with friends at the stripped-down stone church, Tintern Abbey in Wales, where having lost all hope that the howling wind would ever pipe down, we spent most of our time warming up at a friendly pub nearby over a nice hot plate of lunch. Some others talk of a holiday spent in Shakespeare’s home in Stratford-upon-Avon or record a charming day in Cambridge. Before I know it, I’ve spent a good hour going down this nostalgic road. I’m brought back to the current as I read the caption on the last card of my collection, a card depicting two lions with their backs facing each other, two lions that represent yesterday and tomorrow. I smile as I think to myself, “I own a set of postcards that takes me back and just as easily, reminds me to return.”