Edited by: Bhavika Rawat
My desk is extremely cluttered. I am a fairly sentimental individual, and objects, especially those given to me by my loved ones, stand proudly on my desk for everyone to see. Some might think that having so many objects scattered around all the time decreases their individual value—but it is less about those who see them, and more about their presence, about their constant reminder of the people and the memories imbibed in them, and how I represent these memories by keeping them around me at all times. I have always loved the idea of a time capsule, a little box where you could gather and stow away objects that have meaning to you, and then open it again years later to a Pandora’s box of nostalgic happiness. I, however, have never actually buried a time capsule—maybe because I am far too attached to these objects to let go of them for years, or because I revel in their presence perhaps way more often than I should. But, if I had to, there would be a few prized possessions I would (reluctantly) put in this hypothetical time capsule.
A We Bare Bears Painting
My two best friends and I have known each other for over seven years. As many do, we always found ourselves looking for a representation of us in the media. Of a trio of best friends as rambunctious, close, and loving as us. At the age of twelve, when we were all addicted to Cartoon Network, we saw ourselves in the three characters of the show We Bare Bears. It seems silly, projecting friendships onto characters, but I don’t feel it is. I feel it is a motif, made real and beautiful by three kids who did not know they would still see each other in these characters when they would eventually live miles and hours away. When I was leaving for university, one of my friends made three separate paintings of those bears—one for each of us. They are all adorable, painted carefully and brightly and covered with glossy plastic to protect the canvas, and mine means the world to me. It was the first thing I put on my desk when I started decorating my room at university, leaning against a lamp that my other friend gifted me (as if they were somehow connected to each other), and it is the first thing people notice when they enter (just as I intended it to be).
A Princess Jasmine Crochet Doll
A festival at my university allowed me to acquire this one. I have always been a fan of Disney—as a singer, writer, and artist, everything about Disney is right up my alley. I played Princess Jasmine in a school production when I was ten years old, and it was such a phenomenal experience that it has always stuck with me. So when I saw a stall selling crocheted items and spotted a Princess Jasmine doll, I knew I had to have her. She represents the dreams and excitement of a younger me—my love for music and theatre, and the first opportunity I ever got to channel that love. She always sits on my bed—when I sleep, study, or even just have my friends over. She holds meaning to them, now, too—they see how valuable she is to me and lean her carefully against my pillow when she falls over, or put one of her loose little shoes back on her foot when it inevitably comes off every single time all of us sit on my bed and squish her in the process. I think it is beautiful that it is so easy to love something simply because someone you love values it, and that the meaning-making of objects extends not only through one’s own memories, but through people.
A Tiny Hermione Bobblehead
My oldest friend gifted me this for one of my birthdays (she has been around for so long that I do not even remember which one). We were both Harry Potter fanatics growing up—we read all the books and watched all the movies together, and would even compete to see who knew more about the Harry Potter universe. We were so enthusiastic, in fact, that we would send each other Hogwarts letters every year, painstakingly handwriting them using the exact format, language, and information as in the books. When we got a bit older, we turned to other interests, and it started seeming ridiculous that we ever sent each other those letters. That was when she gifted me this Hermione bobblehead. She is tiny, practical, and funny (her head unscrews and she is an ideal earring stand), and it was the perfect olive branch—a simultaneous departure from the younger, more naive versions of ourselves and the acceptance of our former shared love and traditions into our older personas.
My Old Purple Headphones
These headphones were already ancient when I started university. I had owned them for only about a year, but had overused them to such an inane extent that they were practically falling apart. On my seventeenth birthday, my parents surprised me by taking me to an electronics store and telling me to buy any phone I wanted. I did kind of want a new phone, and the one I already had was getting older (my screen came apart only a few months later), but having a newfound hate for consumerism, I declined. I kept insisting against a new phone, almost making my parents walk out of the store with me, until I saw this pair of bright purple headphones hanging off of one of the counters, which were immediately deemed perfect by both my parents and I. I almost always had them either on my head or around my neck. It was only during my second semester, when the leather on the top started flaking and the sound quality reduced to a crackyhum, did I give them up. Even now, they sit in one of my drawers, worn and torn from being loved, and always ready to be used.
A Lollapalooza Wristband
I am a huge fan of Louis Tomlinson. So many of my most fond memories have been made watching old videos of One Direction on YouTube, getting my friends to listen to Louis’ unreleased music, and telling my family the most insane lore that they had absolutely no interest in. My love for Louis goes far beyond his music—his fandom has allowed me to forge genuine friendships. Some of my best friends at university are just as big fans of Louis as I am, and the reason I ever even started a conversation with them was because I had glanced over at their wallpaper and it turned out to be a photo of the cover of one of his albums, or noticed a lyric from one of his songs in their bio on Instagram. So when the setlist for Lollapalooza was announced, we were elated. None of us had ever seen him live, and it just so happened that all of us were available on the days he was performing. It was one of the best experiences I have ever had—to be singing songs I have loved for years at the top of my lungs with my best friends, while seeing, in person, the man I have been watching on a screen since I was fourteen. It was my first concert, and most definitely the best. The wristband represents how grateful I am to have had that experience, to have been able to soak in the surreality of seeing one of my idols in front of me with people who understood and felt, equally as deeply, just how meaningful it was to me.
All these objects mean so much to me that I just have to reiterate my doubtfulness at being able to tear myself away from them for long enough to put them in a time capsule. But if I did, and if the value I assign to the objects around me was determined by what I put into this capsule, then these few objects would definitely be part of the mix. I would rather let go of them and revel in their memories than make it seem as if they, in any way, are not the most valuable things I own.