Scarf of Stress

While a blossoming blue toe is not convivial to a tramp across Hampstead Heath, it does poetically blend in curled up on Somya's grey sofa, as we recover from a day of shopping, drinking and eating. I eye the mildly antiseptic disposition of the pale green wool that tickles my feet. A scarf. For Nikki. The knitting needles bring back memories of Didi and her incredible handiwork, Aunty L's fabulous sweaters, and my fingers reach out to caress the strands that have been woven together. Somya urges me to have a go.... and curiosity drives me to pick up the needles. It's been too long to even remember, but my hands hesitantly draw them against each other, finger twirling the strand around. My movements are timid and slow. Too tight, is Somya's stern pronouncement as she unravels my efforts. I abandon the effort, focusing on one of my most favourite women instead, wishing I could steal some of her serenity and grace. Somya nudges me towards another attempt, but I tell her I failed a home science class because I couldn't find anyone to crochet for me (my mother being the worst seamstress/cook on the planet, and Ba, while skilled at chefness, threading needles and doing buttons, ignored when it came to art of stupid lace type things) make her watch a silly French film instead. It's gone 2 am, and the scarf of stress is progressing prodigiously. We're both tired, but reluctant to go to bed.

Morning brings with it the heavenly scent of Makaibari, and I cave into Somya's suggestion of another go. I feel more relaxed than the night before, and the memory flows more fluidly through my fingers, in, loop, out, under, over.... the needles clack repetitively, and a spot check declares it loose enough to pass muster. My hands pick up their pace, more confident now, and my mind is lulled into a sense of security, surrounded by the comforting sounds of domesticity from Somya in the kitchen, Nina banging around in the bathroom as the needles clack on. The scarf of stress takes on a life of its own, fingers flying faster, mind wandering as random thoughts flit through. Didi's mastery with the costumes for Wonder Girl, secrets shared with P, Sammy's skinny arms wrapping around my neck in a goodnight hug, sitting in a jeep in the pelting rain with Sachin, Amit, Chetan and Aashish, crying ourselves silly, bhutta in the rain after school, a deeply embarrassing oversight of a blatantly obvious TV in a room, the excruciating burning of an allegedly healing spray on broken skin, a leg broken in 11 places, friends, family, laughter, tears. Incidents replay them in my mind randomly, heart surging frighteningly, calming, hands never still and it crosses my mind, that this is what the cliché means.... the tapestry of life, being woven into fabric. Maybe this is how they feel, what their shawls, kelims and other handiwork represent.. flashes from their lives, running through to their fingers as they weave.

Somya inspects my contribution to the scarf of stress. Hmmm... loose, tight, loose, perfect, tight.... my state of mind, moments of my life, now part of a flowing piece of knitwear. What we say, what we hide, what we feel....