Selling my parents antique furniture, Bangalore, India

The men were champions fitting so many pieces in a tiny auto My heart has been heavy this past week, having to sell my parents antique furniture, now that Mum too has passed. The finality of the last nail in the coffin really, to sell all their things and close the chapter. These pieces adorned the beautiful old mansion that was our home through our childhood. Infact many of the pieces belonged to my grandfather and we used so many ourselves, which has made it all that more difficult. We were given time over the years while Mum was ill and ailing, to take whatever we wanted of the furniture and had to sell the rest on her passing. We did not want most of the pieces as they are not meant for an apartment. Just one cupboard takes up so much space and anyway we have built in wardrobes now.

One of my students now with Deloitte bought Mums linen cupboard and is so pleased! The job was tough, BUT being one of the executors of the wills it had to be done and I am glad my parents felt confident in reposing the job in me as well, their first born. Thank God there was never a difference made between male and female progeny in our family and being the eldest it was a good feeling to know that. Who wants bossy goofy men around? And I am glad my parents made sure of that.

The dining table with heaps of memories Today I have found, whatsapp and FB are the greatest selling tools ever. Far more effective than all the ads I have designed and published in the 12 years I ran my own advertising agency -- Arc Advertising. Ads in the papers cost money. Social media is FREE and has a fantastic reach. PLUS, social media, caters to niche audiences. So I put out a small para on my FB page that I was selling my parents antique furniture. In minutes I had two serious buyers. “Could you send me all the pics on whatsapp?” he asked and with alacrity, I climbed down the stairs to Mum’s flat and clicked all the pics. I sent them to him and in seconds he had decided what pieces he wanted.

The Dumb Waiter or sideboard which every respectable home had “ Can I come tomorrow?’ said one. Sure I said and he was there on the first day of the lifting of the lock-down. He came with his whole family and the autorickshaw to carry away what he bought and paid for immediately. It was heart wrenching to see the familiar pieces vanish into the auto and out of sight in under an hour. But there is no other way, someone has to do it. The Dumb waiter or the Side board which held the beautiful soup tureen my Nanna and Mum loved to serve in. It also held a brass gong which was banged to alert us that lunch or dinner was served. That was a more gracious era. An era with culture and genteel norms of etiquette. I do so miss it, today’s culture is not worth talking about.

Mums showcase which held her crockery which had vanished with the old bungalow We ate and drank out of fine china and I did not realise how much that meant to Mum till she visited us in our new home and I offered her tea in a mug.No! Mum always wanted tea in a tea cup and when she did deign to drink from a mug, Dad found beautiful bone china ones for her! There was no question of slurping our tea or eating with fingers. Infact we never could scrape our plates too and always ‘closed’ the plates with our cutlery once we had eaten and were done.My sons were taught that and I am glad they do it with their families too -- no wastage of food and clearing the plate-- only serve as much as you can eat. Mum always had beautiful white cloth serviettes which we used at parties and the table was always covered with a damask table cloth which probably belonged to my grandmother. As the movers lifted off the table top, memories of the hundreds of parties we had in Hayes Road came flooding back. The big screen which divided the dining and the hall was moved back and the tabletop was lifted to one side and the legs were moved forward. In seconds the top was fitted back, the table cloth in place and all the goodies came flooding the table from the kitchen.

The horrible sofa set with its hard cushions That table saw my mother correct her ISC scripts with my sons earning 25 paise per script that they helped her tabulate. That table held her books spread out as she worked with Dad on her Masters in English at the ripe old age of 50. My parents taught us age is just a number and there is no age to stop studying and achieving. And it was all done on that table. The table held dosas,wrapped in newspaper, brought from the top of the road by Dad in a cloth bag and a tiffin carrier with chutney and sambhar. We all sat around it and wolfed down two solid heavy dosas each. Dad ofcourse had to disgustingly drink the remaining sambhar. The table also saw a glut of mangoes year after year from the malgoba tree. “ You can eat as many as you like,” said Pappa which was in contravention of Dad’s “ eat only one,” diktat.

Mums beloved Escritoire which I had to clear of her writing stuff and her pedicure set. The table saw weddings and engagements, it saw grandchildren’s baptisms and achievements celebrated.The table also always held a flask of tea, sugar and milk which we could help ourselves day or night -- a habit I continue. Or in mango season, jugs of mango fool. My heart broke as it was loaded onto an auto, especially when my sister tells me it was bought with Dads first salary for his parents. The sideboard held the plates and cutlery we used every single day and ofcourse the table mats. The large showcase held all Mums prized glass and crockery which sadly nothing is left of all that. Probably lost during the building. The large and heavy Rosewood open showcase held all Dads beautiful corals and massive shells from the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. It also showcased his miniature planes and grungy looking elephants and a rhino from Kaziranga. All that fascinated a child growing up.

Why no one has bought this is a question mark which I hope to remedy The old sofa set will be shipped to the Goa house and so will the washing machine and the fridge if there are no buyers. I refuse to get conned on quality goods which have hardly been used. Ofcourse Mums bed goes back to the Little Sisters, her wheelchair and everything else which she used too. The furniture is almost gone, except for the modern looking beds. Even though they are solid quality no one seems to want them. Whatever is left will go to the Little Sisters of the Poor. And I will have the money that I want to say a year or two of masses in honour of my parents and feed the poor as well in their name at Don Bosco.

The Chest of Drawers in the Dressing room which Dad used. The rest hopefully can be used to clean up and spruce up my sisters flat, which has been run down with the servants ruling the roost for five years and to our great relief cannot enter any more. It’s a terrible and sick feeling when your home is invaded by outsiders taking control. So glad that the furniture has been bought by good homes which will value the pieces like we did growing up. Yes, our childhood has vanished, but we know they are in good hands.