Sleek, smooth and reassuringly solid, their ivory-toned, silky-smooth handles slid comfortably into my palms. I had been seeing them around for ever. They were used as butter knives, to spread jam, slice cheese, fruits and even cakes. They had their own box lined with white satin and each knife also had its own slot in which it was placed after use. They were taken out on special occasions like birthdays and Christmas, when they lorded it over the common cutlery meant for daily use.
Then my father retired and we moved to a smaller house and a life that required fewer to no social evenings with friends. The knives too got downgraded, spent more time lying around on the dining table or in the cutlery drawer with their humbler relatives. As the years went by their number decreased, some of them lost their well-toned handles and they were relegated further back in the cutlery drawer.
Until a few years ago when I went on a ruthless cleaning- cum- clearing out spree and came across a couple of them in a cracked, dusty looking box. The satin lining was now stained and the felt-covered slots were sadly empty. But two of these knives were lying within and as I grabbed them up, memories came rushing into my mind. Memories of cosy, informal dinner parties and get togethers hosted by my parents, where all the nice crockery and cutlery would be taken out, the table would be covered with serving dishes and food platters and the evening would be spent in laughter and chatter. (Those were the days when children were to strictly to be seen, not heard so I was permitted to emerge from my room to say my ‘Good evenings/Namaste’ serve myself and promptly make myself invisible again.)
The knives are now crammed into a large mug that sits on my dining table, along with an assortment of spoons and forks. How have the mighty fallen!
Or maybe not. One doesn’t see or use too many table knives around nowadays. And these ones, in spite of years of neglect and disuse seemed to have borne up remarkably well. So, I asked my mother about their antecedents and was told that she had bought them at the time of her marriage. Which made them older than me. And that they had been bought from one of those high-end shops in Connaught Place, Delhi. My impression of them went up a few more notches. And then I saw the brand name neatly engraved on the blades. A Google search revealed that the knives were manufactured by Christopher Johnson & Co, a company based in England, which had been making cutlery since 1865. Well!! Some more digging around revealed that they are called ‘Faux Bone Handled Knives’ I felt a pang of regret that the knives hadn’t been kept more carefully. Yeah, yeah, we appreciate something only after it’s lost and all that. In my case, it took me a little more than half a century!
I’m sure there are such objects tucked away in many households. Their value lies in not just their age but also in the memories and associations they carry- like an invisible aura. That is what makes them precious. My mother can now rest assured that a couple of the table knives that were a part of her trousseau will be cared for by me.
I, however have been blessed with two obstinately anti-procreation offspring, so I’m doubtful whether these knives will see another fifty years or not. They may very well end up in a scrap heap or at best; a Juna Bazaar.
But what they did do was set off a trail of flashbacks and reminiscences; some random, some connected; which inspired me to begin this journey down memory lane. What with a pandemic laced present and a future riddled with uncertainties, the past (at present!) looks like a better place to revisit and dwell in, from time to time.
So here I am, setting out on the only trip that I’ll be taking this year- no masks, social distancing or gallons of sanitizer required. I don’t even know where I’ll land up next, but I’m on my way. And to think that it was a pair of knives that started it all!
butterfliesonmymindblog 