The Cupboard That Held More Than It Needed

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Smriti usually begins deep-cleaning her house for Diwali after the eight-day festival of Paryushan comes to an end. Every year, it is the same routine. Living in a nuclear family means that every corner of the house is hers to take care of, and the responsibility of cleaning rests solely on her shoulders.

Today, she has finally managed to carve out some time from her daily chores to clean the wardrobe. She hasn’t touched it since the last time she opened it to pick out heavy sarees for her brother’s wedding.

The wardrobe is packed with sarees, lehengas and ethnic dresses. Each outfit is worth more than ₹10,000, yet most have been worn only once or twice. Some have never even been worn. The collection has occupied this space since her wedding, and every year, another outfit finds its way into the wardrobe, without a second thought for the ones already lying there.

She doesn’t always have an occasion in mind when she shops. Sometimes, it is simply habit; other times, an impulse she gives in to. There are exquisite sarees and lehengas she wore for her phera, reception and other wedding functions, alongside dresses that have almost gone out of fashion.

Another compartment holds nearly a dozen sets of bed linens.

Yet another is filled with new utensils, electrical items still in their original packaging, and a set of glass jars and containers. Most of these things were given to her by her mother at the time of her wedding, while others arrived as gifts.

In Marwari tradition, mothers often give their daughters household essentials on their first Diwali after marriage. Ask any Marwari woman, and she will have stories to tell about overflowing wardrobes and cupboards full of things saved for another day.

Smriti had kept the linens, utensils and everything else for the house she hoped to move into someday. After all, a new house filled with new things has its own charm, doesn’t it? But that dream remains far-fetched, while the things she bought for it continue to lie unused.

Standing before this collection, which has become little more than a museum of “just in case,” Smriti finds herself thinking about her mother. The sight brings back memories she hasn’t visited in a long time.

Her mother had a habit of saving every odd and end. Leftover fabric, reusable containers, old textbooks and even the smallest amount saved from the monthly household budget—everything found a purpose.

Growing up, Smriti had watched her mother breathe a second life into things that others might have discarded. To her mother, holding on to things was a gentle devotion, a way of making sure nothing went to waste.

But today, as Smriti looks up at a wardrobe crammed to capacity, a tiny key turns silently in her mind. It opens a door to a question she has never stopped to ask herself: When does saving become holding on to too much?

Memories of her childhood begin to surface. Her mother would quietly set aside whatever little money she could save from the monthly household budget. Those small savings meant that the family did not have to compromise on special requests or gifts. Each amount might have seemed insignificant on its own, but together, they offered security and made a difference.

Her mother reused things instead of replacing them. She made sure textbooks were passed on to the younger children and bought only what the household needed. She taught Smriti and her siblings to handle their books and everyday belongings carefully so that they remained in good condition and could be used by someone else.

Smriti’s clothes were passed down to her little sister. Through these small gestures, her mother showed them that it was not merely about saving money. It was also about passing on stories, memories and care from one sister to another.

She simply called it being careful with money.

To her, bachat meant security, responsibility and finding contentment in what was already present. It meant recognising the richness of what one had rather than constantly looking for more.

Smriti had grown up surrounded by these quiet lessons, never realising how deeply her mother’s everyday actions were shaping her understanding of the world. Her mother never preached about the virtue of saving or delivered formal lectures on preservation. She preferred action over advice: reusing scraps of fabric, repairing things instead of replacing them, passing on clothes and books with warmth, and finding ways to give things a little more life.

These were lessons that travelled from the hands that held to the hands that received. They were never spoken aloud, yet they were written into the smallest gestures of daily life.

Somewhere between those childhood days and the present, however, Smriti had held on to the practice of preservation without questioning what she was preserving things for. She had absorbed the habit like sunlight, accepting it as a natural part of life.

The countless outfits, the linens, the utensils and the sealed boxes had all been pushed towards the threshold of someday. In trying to preserve everything for another day, she had overlooked the opportunity to use them today.

Her mother saved things so they could be reused, shared or put to good purpose. Smriti, on the other hand, had begun accumulating things for a future that existed only as a possibility.

Smriti began to wonder how much money she had spent over the years on things she barely used. Each purchase had seemed reasonable in the moment, but together, they represented money that could have served other purposes. She had mistaken buying something for preparing for the future, without realising that thoughtful saving sometimes meant resisting the urge to buy in the first place.

Her mother’s bachat had created security by setting aside money for future needs. Smriti’s spending, on the other hand, had tied up money in things that remained unused. The difference was not simply between saving and spending, but between making a conscious choice and acting on an impulse.

And perhaps, just perhaps, that was the difference she had overlooked.

The discernment her mother had passed down was never about keeping more. It was about recognising the value in what she already had and finding another use for it whenever possible.

This was the lesson Smriti had missed over the years. She had adopted the discipline of saving and preserving, but somewhere along the way, she had forgotten to read between the lines. She had never stopped to ask herself when enough was enough, or when it was time to let go.

She pulled out one of the designer sarees she had bought at an exhibition years ago. She had never worn it, nor did she have any plans to wear it anytime soon.

Suddenly, she realised what she had been doing all these years. Every year, she took everything out, cleaned the wardrobe and put it all back. The cycle continued, demanding time and mental energy without really changing anything. She was tired of the ritual, yet she continued it because it was part of her annual Diwali cleaning—and because she was an organised freak.

Then, something struck her.

During the eight days of Paryushan, she had attended the vyakhyan (sermons) delivered by Sahebji, a Jain monk. One of the principles discussed was Aparigraha.

People often listen to sermons and return to their everyday lives, leaving the lessons behind. Putting those lessons into practice is another matter altogether.

Smriti remembered Sahebji explaining Aparigraha as the principle of non-possession or non-possessiveness. It was not simply about owning fewer things but about loosening the attachment that made people want to accumulate more. True peace, he explained, began with recognising when enough was enough. On the spiritual path, letting go of material attachments and emotional cravings was also a step towards liberation.

His words about the mental burden of possessions now made sense to her. Life had become busier than ever, yet people continued to collect things that demanded more time, care and attention. Every possession needed space, maintenance and protection. Some even brought the worry of keeping them safe, the guilt of not using them and the effort of finding room for more.

Perhaps saving did not always mean putting something away for another day. Sometimes, it meant saving herself from the burden of things she did not need. It could mean saving her time, her mental energy and her peace of mind.

Sahebji’s words also made her think beyond the objects themselves. In Jain philosophy, every living being, or jiva, has value. The making of material goods can involve the use of natural resources and cause harm to living beings, from the extraction of raw materials to manufacturing and disposal.

The principle of Ahimsa, or non-violence, encouraged a deeper awareness of the consequences of one’s actions. Smriti began to see that an object did not simply appear on a shop shelf. Its production could have an impact on the lives of other beings and on the resources we share. Buying only what was needed, using things for longer and avoiding unnecessary consumption could be small ways of reducing avoidable harm.

For the first time, Smriti could see how the lessons she had grown up with were connected. Bachat had taught her not to waste what she had. Aparigraha taught her not to accumulate more than she needed. Ahimsa reminded her to be mindful of the harm that excessive consumption could cause beyond her own home.

Her mother had practised these values through everyday actions, without giving them names or turning them into lessons. Smriti had inherited the habit of saving but had overlooked the wisdom behind it. Her mother preserved things so that they could serve a purpose; Smriti had preserved them simply because she might need them someday.

Until then, she had thought of bachat as making the most of what she had. Now, she began to understand that saving could mean much more than setting aside money or keeping things for the future. It could mean using what she already owned, conserving resources, reducing waste and freeing herself from the endless desire to acquire more.

This realisation did not make her empty the wardrobe in one go or sort everything into piles of what to keep and what to discard.

Instead, she took out a bedsheet and spread it over the mattress. She moved the glass jars into the kitchen and gave the old ones to the household helper. She passed on the unused outfits she had been holding on to for emotional reasons to those who could use them.

And she made herself a promise: before buying anything new, she would first consider what she already had.

This was the wisdom she needed to acknowledge. Bachat had taught Smriti the value of saving, while Aparigraha was teaching her how to free herself from the mental clutter of holding on to too much. Ahimsa added another layer to that understanding, reminding her that mindful consumption could be an expression of care for lives beyond her own.

Modern minimalism may sound like a new idea, but the wisdom of Aparigraha has existed for thousands of years. Sometimes, an old truth simply finds a new name.

It’s just that the dictionary got a new term.

This post is a part of ‘Bachat & Beyond Blog Hop’ hosted by Manali Desai and Sukaina Majeed under the #EveryConversationMatters blog hop series powered by authors Suruchi Hirawat and Harsh Soni.

#EveryConversationMatters blog hop series.