The trigger for this piece was set off two days ago. Junior was talking to me about Raymond Carver, the great American short-story writer, and Junior's desire to get his hands on any Carver book. I excitedly informed him that not only did I have one of his books - What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, but out of the sheer generosity of my heart, was going to take it for Junior on my planned vacation with him. Junior grunted in approval.

But there was a catch. How was I to retrieve it among the hundreds of books in my possession? Would I have to wade painstakingly from Atwood to Zola for a book that was suddenly more than a book - a delicate bond between mother and son, the strengthening of a fraternity of book lovers? Then, in a happy moment of serendipity, Carver slipped into my hands in two minutes. More phone chatter, trilling, happy laughter on my side, grunts of approval from his.

To cut to the chase, let me declare myself a hoarder. The possessions I lay claim to are a part of me, my identity, each a clue to the enigma I am. If I do not keep every letter, diary, photograph, magazine, receipt, my children's school and college books, their paediatrician's prescriptions for gripe water, I would be failing to be the custodian of my family's history. Each document is a fragment of memory, a validation of our lives together, precious and irreplaceable. I have with me, in one drawer, a photograph of me on my second birthday, clutching a stuffed elephant, my angsty diary penned at 15, a moony letter to my boyfriend, my sons' report cards and an album of my granddaughter's photos. My whole life is in that closet. It is evident that this hoard is ruled more by nostalgia than systematic order. As the sea of objects bobs around the rooms, it is impossible to locate what I want. There's this small piercing agony when I cannot find my father's diary, or my husband's art certificates. And then, just as I am looking for something else, the diary and certificates re-appear, making me feel complete and satiated.

The hoarder has a negative connotation in our society. People starve as traders hoard food items in warehouses. This piece is not about that. I would never ever think of hoarding onions.

What is a real cause for worry among mental health professionals is the tendency towards excessive hoarding. Many collect bric-a-brac, sometimes worthless ones, to cope with social anxiety. Many hoarders fail to understand what merits collecting and hoarding trash. They go through acute anxiety at the thought of losing their stash.

There is even an American television series named Hoarding: Buried Alive. It follows hoarders through their daily lives and helps them manage their illness. Modern life is all about clutter, since shopping is the new religion. If there are three cars in the garage, you can bet your bottom dollar that there are two television sets, three food processors, at least two phones per person. The children's room is choking with toys. Every member drinks different beverages. The fridge is stocked with food, half of which will go past their sell-by date. An overstacked home gives off a sense of confusion and stress. We live in an age when people live longer and longer but there is no time to enjoy one's acquisitions. But we buy them anyway, waiting to use them tomorrow, a tomorrow which never comes.

People who have problems getting rid of possessions are clearly considered eccentrics. There are some celebrities who can be clearly labelled as hoarders - and the list is surprising. Take actor Nicholas Cage. He has a sizeable collection of shrunken heads. He is supposed to have used a fortune amassing them. And know what, he has a thing for skulls too, the most pricey being 67,000 years old.

Johnny Depp is secretive about his hoarding addiction. His sinful indulgence is skeletons, fake moustaches and guns. He is also seriously into dead and living bugs. Paris Hilton falls into the hoarding spectrum because she owns 17 dogs. It does seem strange but Lisa Kudrow, of Friends fame, admits to not letting go of faxes, documents, planners that go back to the 1980s.

People hoard strange objects. I am glad, I hoarded the Carver book. Reward, Junior's grunt of approval. Sweet.


Indrani Raimedhi