The shelf life of souvenirs

It irritates me sometimes when I collect souvenirs. Most of them are opened in the flush of excitement upon returning from a journey and then put back. They get lost in the crowd. The few that have my attention find a place on shelves, in nooks and crannies, on walls. What is their shelf life?

Why do I want somebody else’s history when I try valiantly to brush off mine?

Tomorrow, instead of a miniature Eiffel Tower, one ‘lucky’ sod who has anything between $29,000 and $44,000 to bid, can claim a section of its winding staircase at an auction in Paris. This had been dismantled when they built a lift. I think the Eiffel Tower is a monstrosity. I wish I had done what other tourists do – stood outside and just got myself clicked. Now I have some stupid pictures taken from ‘up there’; it could be a viewing gallery in Ooty, for all I care. And yes, I bought a few key rings and one of those brass little mementoes of the monument. I used it as a paper weight till I realised my paper carried more weight.

Of course, there are souvenirs that make me feel good. Pebbles and shells I pick up on sandy beaches, leaves and flowers that get pressed between the pages of books, receipts on which I have scrawled words or doodled, hotel stationery where I have written down numbers that I may never need again…and as I type this there is a small battery-operated fan in silver-grey and black.

I had bought it at a mall in London when it had got unusually warm. The first thing I did on returning to my room was to get it out of its wrapping; its wings were so light and delicate. As always I fidgeted with them, turned them far back to see how far they'd go before snapping. They didn’t. I liked that. There was the dread that if I started it something would go wrong. I had left the windows open. A gust of wind blew. There was a sudden chill in the air. The weather had changed. It was sultry no more. My fan had become redundant.

Today, it stands on my table, a tiny redundancy as the large table fan whirrs. I occasionally hold it in my hand, switch the power on and as the wings turn at rapid speed, its three petals merge. I close my eyes and feel the breeze.

It wasn’t meant to be a souvenir. It has no history. It has no value. It cost precious little. The colour is sleek and trendy, no sepia-toned delight. And it had been useless and did not serve the purpose it was bought for. Yet, it is with me, sometimes bringing a smile to my face and, if I don’t want to use a tissue, it even dries tears.

What I like best about it is that it won’t ever become a memory to torment me.