A place for everything

One of my earliest memories is my fascination with my grandfather’s office table. My paternal grandfather, R Narayana Iyer, ICS, was a retired judge and Sanskrit scholar. He spent most of his waking hours at his office table, reading or writing.

It was huge and occupied the entire width of his small reading room and was filled with all sorts of things: files, diaries, reams of white paper, an ink stand with red and blue ink bottles, a pen holder with steel-nibbed pens that had to be dipped into the ink bottle every now and then while writing, a rocking blotter pad, cigarette and matchboxes, an ash tray—the list goes on. My favourite piece was a pinewood mini chest of drawers with each drawer allotted to hold pins, visiting cards, etc.

In the midst of all this, the grandfather wrote or typed with a jabbing forefinger on his portable typewriter, a cigarette dangling from his lips with such concentration that the ash used to build up dangerously and tremblingly long at the end of the cigarette. We children watched with bated breath, expecting it to fall any time, but he managed to knock it off neatly into the ashtray at the nick of time.

Yes, he was a meticulous man, keeping everything in its place and never needing to search for anything on his overcrowded office table. But my father was the exact opposite. If he wanted his wallet, we had to search in the pockets of all the shirts, coats, and trousers hanging on the coat stand. His glasses and car keys could be anywhere—under the pillow, in that day’s newspaper, or among his files. When it was time for him to leave for work, my mother had to drop everything she was doing in order to search for the missing items.

Fortunately, I was better placed in my household. My husband, who is very orderly and meticulous to the point of exasperation, would have warmed the cockles of my grandfather’s heart. His cupboard is always in such a state of orderliness, with a place for everything and everything in its place. In fact, not even a single strand of his hair is out of place!

By the order of things, my son turned out to be quite the opposite: he never combed his hair, whether he wore it long or short! But when my children were young, they toed the line to keep the house in order. All I had to say was "Appa is coming'" and they raced with each other to gather all the strewn toys and put them in the toy chest that stood in one corner. In their enthusiasm, they even put away other things, too. So if anything was missing, we knew where to look!