Every so often, one of the children would look at the old almirah in Mina's room and announce that it really had to go. It was ugly. It had dents. It looked completely out of place in a house that had otherwise moved on.
The almirah, of course, had no reason to worry.
Nobody dared cross Mina.
It had never been a particularly beautiful piece of furniture. In fact, it looked a little as though it had been rescued from an old government office.
Curtains changed. Beds changed. Sofas changed. Paint colors changed.
The Godrej almirah remained—large, solid and perhaps slightly offended by the suggestion that it needed to match anything.
None of the children admired it.
And yet, whenever something important needed to be kept safe, someone would inevitably call out:
"Amma, can you please put this document in the Godrej bureau?"
Mina's husband would hand her cash and tell her to put it in the secret compartment.
So perhaps the family didn't love the Godrej.
But they trusted it.
The younger generation simply didn't understand.
Built-in teak closets were far more appealing to them. They did not appreciate the smooth movement of that familiar handle as you turned it down to open the door. Or the satisfying weight of the heavy steel doors. Or those clean metal shelves that never acquired the mysterious musty smell of an old wooden cupboard.
These were finer details. Clearly wasted on them.
For many middle-class Indian families, the Godrej bureau was practically a member of the household.
Often, there were at least two.
One belonged to the lady of the house, filled with neatly folded and hanging sarees, salwar kameez sets, winter clothes and shawls carefully wrapped in newspaper.
The other belonged to the man of the house: safari suits, trousers, crisply ironed shirts and perhaps one or two suits protected inside suit covers.
These were not ordinary wardrobes.
These were the stalwarts of storage.
And let us not forget the real attraction—the locker tucked away inside.
Long before OTPs, passwords and two-factor authentication, that little steel locker was trusted with property papers, gold, emergency cash and every other object considered sacred or important.
It was the family's Fort Knox.
Children's Godrej almirahs were another story entirely.
The outside would be covered with stickers, posters and whatever obsession ruled childhood at the time. Mine was covered with He-Man and assorted other stickers—this was long before Harry Potter and Pokémon entered our lives.
Years later, tastes changed.
The stickers did not.
They peeled at the corners but stubbornly refused to surrender completely.
Inside were tin boxes filled with treasures: shells collected on trips, letters, medals, photographs, half-finished needlework and countless little things that somehow seemed too important to throw away.
Indian households had already mastered recycling long before anyone called it sustainable living.
Danish cookie tins, sweet tins, biscuit boxes—nothing went to waste.
Every container was destined for a second career.
One held sewing supplies. Another contained old photographs. Another had buttons, safety pins or miscellaneous screws whose origins nobody remembered but which could not possibly be thrown away because "we may need them someday."
And naturally, no part of the Godrej almirah itself was allowed to remain unused.
The flat top became a secondary loft.
Suitcases, bedding rolls and mysterious boxes that had not been opened in years were stacked above it. I am fairly certain I have even seen a trunk sitting atop one of my aunts' Godrej bureaus.
Everything would sometimes be wrapped in layers of plastic to protect it from dust.
Even the small space underneath, between those sturdy metal legs, was fair game. Old newspapers, shoes, chappals and miscellaneous household items would find their way there.
No square inch was wasted.
The Godrej almirah may never have matched the décor of the home, but somehow it matched the sentiment of an Indian family perfectly.
It survived movers wrestling it through narrow staircases and doorways.
It survived being scraped against walls, tied with ropes and hauled up to second-floor balconies, and balanced precariously on trucks on its way to yet another address.
It watched children grow up.
It moved with daughters when they got married.
It migrated from the master bedroom to the guest bedroom as newer wardrobes took its place.
At some point, it may have stopped holding sarees and begun storing bedsheets, old documents or things nobody quite knew what to do with.
Its paint faded.
Its dents multiplied.
The house around it changed.
But the Godrej almirah stood tall and stubbornly dependable through it all.
I recently came across another post about the Godrej almirah, and it immediately brought back so many memories. I began thinking about the Godrej bureaus I have seen in my own family—how they seemed to endure across homes, cities and generations.
And perhaps that is why I feel so nostalgic about them.
They weren't stylish.
They weren't designed to disappear seamlessly into your décor.
But they held our clothes, our documents, our little treasures, our emergency cash, our childhood collections and, without anyone quite realizing it, decades of family history.
Maybe the old Godrej almirah was never just a cupboard after all.
Did your family have a Godrej bureau? Was yours covered in stickers, packed with sarees or guarding the family's most important papers? I would love to hear your Godrej memories in the comments.
