Back to Basics: Lessons to be learned in returning to our roots

A few weeks ago, my bhangarwala (local buyer of recyclable items, including newspapers, bottles, cans, etc.) asked me if I had old metal, since bottles had no value any more (the bottle-recycling industry was shutting down). Since my mother will throw a fit if I give any of her copper-bottomed heirlooms or iron griddles, I told him I had nothing. “What about old toys or books of the child?” he asked. I told him I donate it to a local shelter for children and he laughed. “Ha ha, but they sell it to me, so you might as well, directly.”

Now I give stuff to NGOs occasionally, but if there are things that I would like to set free (I don’t like the word donate), I make a list of people, call them, and ask them if they would like a pair of sneakers, books or floats or anything in good condition that my child or I may have outgrown physically or emotionally. It takes work, but it is infinitely more rewarding. Likewise, when I want something specific, I ask for it. When I am tired of my stuff and want new stuff, I have no shame in asking people for hand-me-downs — ripped jeans, jackets, saris, kurtas, bags, embroidery books, knitting needles, yarn, whatnot. And people are always generous. I have a circle of friends I regularly do barters with and I will recycle anything and so will the child. This is the nice thing about making art. Everything finds a place.

The worst thing for the environment right now is not straws — it’s greed and random consumption — to always want more, own more, dump more.

I had a green childhood. Our school satchels were made of thick canvas/cloth and we had the same one for several years, frequently stitched up. My textbooks were kept aside for my siblings. Our tiffin boxes were always steel. We drank water from taps. For notebooks, we used brown paper, home-made labels and home-made gum paste. All our clothes were stitched at home and everything we ate was made at home. Except Parle G and sliced bread (which made a guest appearance once in a while). We walked to school, we played with friends, we hardly had toys. Once a month, my father or the help would go to Pai stores with a list and groceries would be brought home in a large jute bag. Tins had to be sent for oil, ghee. Everything else came in recycled brown paper bags. Rice was bought from farmers (my dad always knew someone) in large 20 kg gunny bags. The only plastic that came into the house was the milk packets of Warana milk that Amma started buying once she found that our milkman was giving us more water than milk from his canister. She would wash and dry each packet. These were sold once a month for Rs 7 a kilo to the same guy who bought our old newspapers. Empty pages of our school notebooks were collected and bound into “rough books” in the school holidays. Uniforms had hems that if unfurled, would run up to our ankles (just in case we got my father’s height).

Fruit was not a staple, but we occasionally ate guavas, bananas, oranges, watermelons or anything seasonal. Once a year, a crate of mangoes arrived and we had no upper limit on how many we could have. It was real indulgence. We had no gadgets (except a Sumeet mixer and a Philips radio). No one spoke about global warming. It wasn’t a thing.

I am saddened by the world we are leaving for our children. And each time I look at my garbage bin, I am saddened even more. Especially when I multiply that amount by 1.2 billion people.

Two years ago, Re was picking up litter in Landour and he said something that I will never forget. “Mamma, when humans don’t want things, they throw it on Mother Earth. It’s like they don’t want garbage in their house, but they are okay with throwing it on Mother Earth’s garden. At this rate, all that garbage will become another planet.”

Maybe it will.

Lalita Iyer is a Mumbai-based writer. Her new book, Sridevi: Queen of Hearts (Westland), is out in September.