<b>Kishore Singh:</b> A few things I want to return

These are a few of the things I want to return - a set of the Shiva trilogy that I tried to read but now know I never will, a tea set from Wedgwood that was a mistake, a too-tight shirt that my tailor passed off as slim-fit, shelves full of useless kitchen appliances still to be relieved of their packaging, too-trendy jeans that my children threaten will cause them acute embarrassment should I ever wear them, an apartment that is taking so long to build it reminds me of a GoI project, wristwatches that I can't resist buying on airplanes but which have no brand or sartorial merit, travel souvenirs that are kitschy, hotel towels with logos that mark one as a kleptomaniac, a couple of unused mobile handsets so ancient even the domestic staff won't deign to use them, a particularly bilious carpet, strollers that come free with duty-free scotch (which you have to buy), and a receiving set for Worldspace radio that is now obsolete. These are a few of the things I want to return but I don't know anyone who wants them.

These are a few things I no longer have place for - an old portable on which I wrote my first book, my collection of vinyl records tied up with twine, photographs of old girlfriends because, you know, they don't look like that any more, my wife's collection of old jam jars for no reason at all, dog-eared books that one can easily re-read on Kindle, keys to doors and locks long forgotten (but you never know when you might need them), floppy disks that kept getting corrupted and swallowed up manuscripts, old report cards, sweaters with a sentimental attachment, a wedding album full of photographs of aunts and uncles but none of the bridal couple, the only remaining whisky glass from a set I bought as a bachelor from Calcutta's New Market, a file of letters from one's childhood, broken photo frames and tarnished trophies from school and college that I've long forgotten what I got them for. These are the things I no longer have place for other than in my heart.

These are the things that make no sense at all - a nose hair clipper given by my brother-in-law (what was he thinking?), my mother-in-law's hand-me-downs of doodahs, my father's insistence I keep his old dictaphone for which you don't get tapes any more, my wife's habit of storing chocolates and preserves in the fridge long past their use-by date (and mine, ditto, for wine-gone-bad, but, hey, I paid good money for it), and diaries with really bad poetry from when everyone wrote bad poetry. These are things that make no sense at all, but you get to keep them anyway.

There is one thing I can return - a writing award from a long while ago that was awarded at a 'glittering' ceremony in Colombo and included a 'revolving' trophy, so, it was, in a sense, returned at the end of that year, but somewhere there's a framed certificate that came with it, though everyone who signed it is now dead, may their souls rest in peace. I never personally attended the occasion in Colombo because I hadn't got my passport. So, though there is one thing I can return, I don't know who to return it to, so perhaps the best thing would be to carry the certificate to Sri Lanka - and I'm due for a holiday anyway.