The Knitting Bag
It is an ordinary knitting bag , faded brown and of no use us to anyone anymore. A wool bag with handles in which women put their knitting needles and wool and a pattern book carrying it along fashionably . Now it sit sin my room cupboard holding memories and hiding secrets and whispers of a lady who used it . It’s my Naniji’s ; reminding me of her and all that she made and knitted . Arent women wonderful ? They knit , they sew , they build lives, they persevere and plant and dig roots as deep as they can to stabilise her life and her family .
And , this is what she did, in 1950’s a young immigrant beautiful lady who travelled from Ludhiana to Ohio, without knowing the lay of the land or the language fluently but followed the path to her husband. I wonder where do the things go , when the person dies, what do you do with the things ,objects that she had collected over the years lovingly from the travels abroad as an expat . It is what life is , our houses are already full, our houses have a certain decor and these old fashioned crochets or embroidery have no place with the avant grande or the minimalistic approach to our lives now.
She must have sat , huddled with other expat wives learning how to knit and fix these handles and learning a foreign language . The snow , the weather , the conditions , the food all different . This sentimentality stems from the fact that I have so much of the dust catchers ( as they say ) or the silver I have collected over the years or the trolls that I feel are my lucky charm. Who will take them ?
I wonder , where will it go ? Life is fluid , transitory but does that mean one shouldn’t buy anything or one should have less desires . Who takes care of the dying objects that remain in a corner gathering dust ? I would probably be remembered for the books I bought that would fetch a hefty price from the raddiwala and the empty coffee jars .
It saddens and pains me , the weather changes , leaves fall and trees stand tall bereft of their foliage , I go back in time and thing of all those who have left their homes and settled in Punjab after partition and started life and some went abroad to be pioneers but what remains of them ? A speck in history and now some black and white faded pictures . I tried researching on Google ( my answers for everything ) but realised that it cant feel , or be emotive. A life is lived with emotions and feelings and the change in weather has made me accept that its ok to be maudlin got feel and to emote and to cry . And I ,keep the books ,the journals and her things because she leafed through them and i can feel her …it’s like I try with my grandfathers sweater and her bangle . Or a muffler that menaces and hugs me ..
I wish for an embrace again ..
