Needle and thread Lessons 

My tryst with the needle began quite early. The severity of the stings left by the sharp metal tip of the slim contraption called the needle puncturing my fingers and my pride, not before leaving a slim red trail behind, remains clearly etched in my memory. The seamless progress of the slim devil, despite being thwarted, at times sometimes by the fabric and the colourful strands of thread in their knotted, notoriety continued undeterred transforming lifeless forms and shapes into works of art. Some of my earliest memories of taming the needle still evoke strong memories of desperation as most of my efforts to make it reappear as close to the point where it had nose-dived ended with disastrous consequences.

Ma was my embroidery tutor. It happened to be just one of the many arenas that she initiated me into. One of the firsts things she taught me was to thread the needle without licking the divergent tips of the skeins -a skill I could only master after probably thousands if not million attempts. Her insistence to see me succeed paid off, though the temptation to lapse into the easier option has not yet deserted me.

My initial catastrophes continued to plague her, being bereft of any sense and sensibility. Their uncanny resemblance with each other, be it flora or fauna from avian or to the canine variety always managed to put even the most nonchalant viewer to shame. Only my ardent supporters including lolta nani and narayani mausi never failed to pin their flailing hopes on my capacities. Their optimism managed to keep my spirits alive   perhaps only to see each disaster reappear with renewed vengeance.

My efforts continued in the field and multiplied during the vacations. Primarily a leisure time activity, my rendezvous with making handkerchiefs kept me busy. Graduating slowly into bibs and clothing for neonates of the hospital especially for the ones who could not afford even the bare minimum my creative pursuits became slightly better with the passage of time .It felt good to see the delicate strands of colour surface with astonishing alacrity adding to the dignity and grace of the fabrics they intended to beautify.

The phenomenal use of crimson in its brightest tinge for flowers of every genre complemented by an equally shocking shade of green for the leaves continued in my early days as did the knot at the end of the strand, adding to the terrible mess below, much to the consternation of my nimble handed tutor. Ma always worked without knots. I never did; which was just one glaring difference of the many that existed between us.

The initial materials I got to practice my embroidery skills on would invariably be wobbly and tinged with a persistent shade of cream that replaces the original white due to overuse and aging. After the design would be drawn or transferred through carbon it had to be fitted onto a wooden frame first and then the chains would assist the lazy daisy, to continue gliding undeterred before tapering as the stem. The beautiful fly manifesting in its complex avatar as the herringbone as it pitched its might or the French knots jostling for attention with the complicated strains refusing to play second fiddle to the more sensible long and short. Each stitch, I believe worked with the same ethos; that of transforming the emptiness into a creative riot of shapes colours and forms besides adding to the creative repertoire of the creator. The wonderful feeling to see the delicate satin attain a degree of perfection, and equally vindicated by my steadily improving grades in needlework and craft added to my confidence and providing solace to my mother who thought that each button hole in my initial years was only like the wobbly teeth of the aged. The shifting places of my craft submissions from the rare corner to off the center in exhibitions in my final years in school qualitatively stood up to match the stiff competition with a certain èlan from the more dexterous ones in the class.

The Ondori Books Ma brought from some of her patients just reflected her passion in needlework. She would ask me to trace out designs from these books and safely file them in a brown leather box adding to our design collection. Cuttings from Newspaper Femina , Eves` Weekly were all kept in segregated manner with other slim books of designs . I knew most of them. Some of the designs were recreated in our pillow covers, in the runners or adorned the coffee or the central table.   The Ondori books with the glossy umpteen offerings of beautiful creations were in stark, contrast to the staid desi versions stored in the box. Many a time she would learn a stitch or craft from a patient of hers and then teach me. I must give her credit of teaching me tatting, an art I could not have done without her and which till date never could become double layer making me wonder of her extreme capacities. 

I would know instantly of Ma`s reaction which would be either of displeasure or one of happiness from the deepening intensity of the creases on her forehead or the equally increasing number of furrows lined above her brows or the clear absence of it clearly reflecting her verdict and speaking volumes about my non-performance. Later Sister Loretta ,Sister Anunciata and Sister Agapit at school too joined the tribe making it a respectable number and adding to my challenges. Ma`s discerning eye would successfully scan each lack of symmetry, each slip of tension, and each hasty approach. Her pronouncement as an aftermath would never vary. ``Open the stitches and redo it``.

I understood that doing it well was easier than opening each and then redoing it. I realized flitting between fiction and embroidery and did justice to both. With my vacations becoming artful and literary escapades to beat the scorching summers and soaring mercury I became better in both reading and embroidery combatting effectively between power failures, erratic water supplies, and the matchless mosquito blitzkrieg.  My roses and pansies gradually assumed distinct shapes and stood the challenge convincingly as did my ever-increasing repertoire of stiches. I gradually mastered the kasuti ,kantha ,sindhi embroidery and graduated beyond handkerchiefs and bibs to covers for the drawing room shelves, pillows or covers for the few pieces of furniture in our official accommodation which was blissfully nestled in the heart of the city yet was miraculously shielded away from the hustle bustle and din that continued unabated outside.

As I advanced into my teens my fingers became more nimble as did my idea of using colours. Ma would always say that my work could be much better had I been blessed with the virtue of patience. I remember doing three bookshelf covers with Kasuti and the credit again goes to Ma as she painstakingly drew the lines and the equally spaced dots like a goldsmith carving intricate filigree. Later, when her vision weakened I remember reading out the instructions to her step by step as she completed a doily in white with a thin polished cycle spoke. 

When I graduated to execute drawn thread and cutwork a distinct influence of the convent education I had, she would recount about the remarks of my late father, who questioned the prudence of weakening the fabric by pulling and cutting the fabric or strands heartlessly under the mantle of creativity. She would also reminisce about the insensitivity meted out to her as a child while she was asked to draw out threads during acute onset of glaucoma after a trip to Deogarh in her childhood leaving her left eye weakened for life.

Another area that continued to irritate her leaving her peeved was the amount of thread that I would waste or throw –a far cry from the one that forced the needlework community, in the days of yore known for its judicious use of the priceless commodity. Threads always remained special to her as she recollected of times when she, like many others had to draw the coloured threads out of the borders of the saris that were worn out or lay unused. I still remember her narrations where she would mention how she would embroider with threads that were meticulously drawn from the coloured borders of Tant saris. Unbelievable, I thought, yet the veracity of the claim gained a foothold when I saw an entire casket of the fragile assortment of the deveined borders caringly stored by Dida in Ashirbad Bhagalpur.

Ma would often show me her creations. Generally delicate and done in whites, the fragile creations evoked a strong resemblance to Dresden china strongly belying their tenacity. I still treasure them for their beauty defying age, as do my memories. The fine pastel strands outlining the summer blossoms on surfaces that were whiter than the virgin stretches of snow shrouding virgin peaks always manage to mesmerize me. Magical poetries of drawn thread, their lace edged   corners and borders speaking volumes of an art that is sharply declining or has receded to one of the furthest corners of leisure activities in contemporary times.

The ceremony or the ritual of unwrapping them remained a magical event. Each creation was wrapped in muslin with several naphthalene balls an opening them revealed the magic inside also because of the intricate art of disrobing them layer after layer. They would be carefully stored, aired and warmed out in the autumn sun and were only used on only special occasions.

Washing them was another ritual I remember distinctly. Ma had trained Noni in the fine art of washing them. From being soaked in the bucket of cold soapy water to the detailed rinsing she would take all possible precautions. Wringing them was forbidden and I assisted her mostly for brushing the lace edging, before they were pinned on thick wads of newspaper or old towels, but not before the delicate starch after wash they received.  Noni`s loving caresses added to their longevity and they would finally be ironed before being re-confined in their caskets tenderly till their reemergence.

 

Visitors never failed to admire the creations. Comparing them with my flashy sojourns was nothing short of blasphemy. Both of us would feel happy in our own perceptions she on passing the legacy and I simply on being praised. Realization dawned only later about the miniscule amount of vanity that might have crept in me because of the deserved   or undeserved praises by an entire community of people whose fondness and love I soaked and crave for every day in my present life.

Chhad Khai –an ode to the Odia foodie

 As the sanctimonious nip in the air resonates with Naam- kirtans, with the reverberations echoing blowing conches, and temple bells Odias respectfully herald the pious month of Kartik after bidding adieu to Goddess Durga. As careful hands artfully decorate the Tulsi Chauras with beautiful colourful, tributes depicting the three deities Jagannath Balabhadra and Subhadra with dry rice flour mixed with colour the holy month of Kartik unfolds its mystic sensibilities by beckoning every Odia to cleanse, control and fortify themselves spiritually through a month long period of abstinence and rituals.

The celebrations acquire a special meaning for the thousands of Habishyalis (devotees) thronging the temple city of Puri. Thriving on a frugal meal once a day comprising of rice and habisha Daal, thousands of ardent devotees are caught in the frenzied pace of sacred rituals with the darshan of the various appearances of the lord and adding the much desired spiritual fervour.

Culminating with the sacred five day period of Panchaka devoted to the worship of Tulsi Awala Shiva and the sun Kartik Purnima or Dev purnima  marking the victory of Lord Shiva over the demon Tripuri . Besides being accepted as the most propitious days for worshipping Shiva, next only to the Maha Shivaratri the full moon day assumes deep spiritual and religious meanings in the life of every devout Hindu. While Panchaka sees a steep rise in the prices of greens and vegetables the increased sales of sweet potatoes, Oou saaru and saaga indicate their inclusion in the special diet.

It always augurs well for followers of faith when science and religion merge. Restraining from a spicy diet, rich in animal proteins helps the body as per Ayurveda principles negating the ill effects of pitta, predominant in sharad. A vegetable enriched diet not only helps cleanse the body of toxins but practicing rituals and ceremonies also help regulate metabolism apart from deepening resolve and spirituality. Further the early morning dip in water bodies whether sacred or local are believed to aid in supplying the much-required Vitamin D especially at the crack of dawn. Welcoming winter, and the marriage season the last day of Kartik also marks the last day to take Ganga Snana , besides being revered as the birth day of  Guru Nanak. The day also sees the sailing of the Boita or paper boats by many as a symbol to bring prosperity into their lives an extension of ancient custom, which saw merchants of the state setting sail on far off voyages for trade.

 As the resplendent glow of Kartik Purnima enchants and blesses the holy, it`s enthusiastic welcome of Chaad Khai is warmly received by every Odia. Ushering the festive mood by sharply swerving away from the period of restraint Chhad Khai unleashes a long and famed trail of gastronomic delights with unmatched liveliness across households.

The thronging crowds, jostling for space in front of the butcher shop or the fish market openly reflect the desires of the Odia Foodie. Opening a cornucopia of non vegetarian delights with a tantalizing array of dishes including the much loved Macha Besara with the fried fish appetizingly nestling in a bed of tangy spicy mustard curry, to Kasha Mangsha famed to leave a fiery trail of aroma and taste as the mutton melts in the mouth with the delicious Kankada(Crab) Kukuda (Chicken) and prawn (Chingudi)curries appease  and tease the taste buds enticingly .Fish remains close to the Odia palate since ancient times and hence its natural habitat the water considered worthy to be revered .

 With rural belts strongly believing that one takes rebirth, as a crane if one doesn’t adhere to custom chad khaai being a delicious deviation from austerity invites every Odia to delve into the lavish fanfare with gay abandon.  Not only is the festivity celebrated in the state and nation but also across the Odia diaspora as well. The predominantly non -vegetarian food festival reinforces and enriches tradition custom besides strengthening roots and cultural transcendence. With commercial offerings becoming increasingly attractive in recent times, vindicated by many city-based eateries announcing weeklong celebrations, reflecting strong departures from norms, and festivities crossing thresholds and the hearth gaining momentum under the garb of neo practices.

  As Kartik Poornima ushers Chhad Khai and Balijatra celebrations, with Prathamashtami and the weekly Marga shira Guruvaar eagerly awaiting in the wings to bless each Odia threshold with happiness and prosperity let the joyous pride and respect for a rich legacy blossom forth in profusion spreading the fragrance of joy and unity amongst one and all.

                                                                    A tryst with time

 I hear the soft knock for the umpteenth time interrupting my chain of thoughts as I grapple to come to terms with bridging the gaps of present lapses and future projections. The persistent nature of the knock  compels me to open the door ,with a  reluctance that is almost palpable.Habit forces me to extend a warm welcoming smile to my beautiful guests .I acknowledge their strong presence, failing to extricate my tangled mesh of thoughts and memories from their pervasive invasion.

Past, suave in a perfectly cut tuxedo chaperoning Nostalgia draped in pure soft white cashmere the soft fabric complementing her shapely curves with the floral scarf perfectly accessorizing her simple elegance. The faint hint of musk and rose spread an unmistakable sense of languor as I realize the joy seeping through me as my banal efforts fail hopelessly to stop me  enjoying the  repartee with my cherished guests.  I see the treasure of memories flooding unrestrained from their tight confines draping me with warmth and enchantment .I watch in wonder the change descend upon my my dull clinical office as it swathes itself in beautiful hues.

As I vacillate between the strange quandaries and dilemmas hovering between happiness and guilt I feel the forceful entry of my eternally unwelcome partner and constant companion Present invade utopia   unannounced.  I shrug off the sharp sting of jealousy as I watch his long and easy strides as he crosses the room .I long to replicate the consummate ease with which he settles on the soft sofa opposite me. I fail to stop stammering as I dread facing the smirk bordering on disdain perched precariously between his cheeks and the aquiline nose trying to silence the scores of excuses hovering on my near paralyzed tongue. My silence is admittedly inadequate as he stares at me in askance finally  ripping me out my reveries with a precision difficult to match.  

With the strong ticking of the small clock on the glass table reminding me of the passage of time my thoughts are interrupted yet again by the  interrogative tone booming from Present questioning my prized guests about the very nature of their visit. Clearly voicing his unhappiness about their intrusion while accusing them of stalling the eventful flow of work in strong words ,I watch horrified as the two gentlemen enter an ugly spat of words. With Nostalgia beating a hasty retreat eagerly accompanied by Eloquence Articulation Patience, its a desperate situation as Past fights a lonely battle to fend off the aggressive deliberations of the accuser. The rising crescendo slowly making it more evident about the entry of Anger Dissent Hurt Disbelief and Hate I hear the feeble excuses given by  Past  as to its incapability  to change anything  with Present noting this with  smug delight. It`s not long that I fall prey to the evil machinations of Present as I forcibly shake myself back to routine.

As I complete an assignment heaving a sigh of relief which is compounded as I see the sudden arrival of Reason  as she casts furtive glances  to the tense situation between the sparring rivals. As she peeps out of the tiny nook round the corner, cloaked in grey, she leaves a strong yet unmistakable fragrance of positivity in the room. With skillful ease she calms the agitated offenders and  soothes their ruffled egos while working steadily on  smoothening their deeply creased brows and furrowed foreheads. I watch mesmerized as she effortless glides across to each, patiently explaining, coaxing .cajoling  one at a time finally making the sparring generals  agree for a truce.

I welcome the tiny smile flit across the face of Past as it looks across  his foe while the unstopping hands of the clock, witness ensuing the lighthearted chatter slowly graduate into an acceptance if not a casual friendship between the dissenting twosome.

 I distinctly feel the easing of the Herculean Grip of Present on my thoughts  relax into a casual touch. as my feats thank him ,I catch a glimpse of the twinge of regret ,or was it  pride on the face of Past as I briskly walk past  to face the unknown uncertainties of the Future.

Of grasshoppers sparrows lady birds and paper boats

Of sparrows grasshoppers ladybirds and paper boats……

Out of the many things that have vanished from my rather cramped life are some simple pleasures brought by the sparrows that would rarely leave me alone in my room having four acute angles ,and merging with the fifth with extreme reluctance. The unabashed show of embarrassment was more than visible as each merged with the other at acute angle incidentally, all acute. Each had a window similar in size and fitted with ledges both on the inside and outside making the room almost free from free wall space.

The sight of chirping sparrows perched happily on the curtains, which began one-fourth from the top, added a lot of cheer to my life. Sitting in close proximity on the spring clasp from which the curtains hung, my extremely spirited friends filled my room with lot of happiness. Breaking the sanctity of the quiet gray hours of dawn with their incessant twitter and tiny shifting leaps, watching them became a habit. The varying time spells with which I watched them, mostly increased or decreased in length the intensity directly proportional the difficulty level of each academic hurdle I encountered. A welcome distraction, they mostly helped me to think creatively and constructively. My interest in their activities grew as I saw their innocuous and playful exchanges graduate into noisy duels with the aggressive males easily differentiated by their deep brown coats, exhibiting their prowess with admirable fierceness while the females in softer brown coat forming the intense audience taking a well deserved break from their regular pecking on flowers or from swinging on delicate branches .The timely appearance of my feathered companions each dawn and their equally surprising disappearance at dusk with matchless precision still remains a mystery difficult to unearth. They remained a part of my every day life with their numbers multiplying in spring and summer. Their small and well made nests in the tiny nooks on the wooden roof support outside the room always notified me of the additions in the family .The softer twitters of hungry tiny inmates and the fierce screeches each time a predator   encroached upon the privacy announced in no soft tones ,of hungry babies, and apt parenting skills.

The whirring blades of the electric fans sometimes mercilessly snuffed the life of some brave hearts who ventured inside the room to challenge the might of modern technology. Dada always closed the windows in the summers and even switched off the fans to ward off the intruders, yet the mishaps were not exactly rare.   In case of an eventuality he would even offer droplets of water fetched by me close to their tightly shut beaks. I remember casting furtively glances over his shoulders hoping for miracles that never happened.

The gasps of the helpless victims still remain etched in my memories forcing me to realize of the intense pain that plundered the small bodies and I lost no time in passing a silent judgment inadvertently blaming technology. The fact that a single act of recklessness can lead to horrifying consequences probably laid its early seeds in my thoughts, then. To watch their tragic end, and life ebbing away from the lively creatures was sad indeed. Some times the steady and determined queue of red ants notified us about the untimely demise of the little baby sparrows. The lack of wings or the tiny gray vestiges of the so-called wings tightly clinging on their pink skin provided no inkling of their future looks. Though it took me some years to master the skills of putting the lifeless bodies of the hapless victims on old newspapers and throw them away, as a child I would call out to one of the maids to take over the course of actions in case of the eventualities. It would `not be without remorse that I saw the tiny creatures being thrown away with a casualness which I never agreed upon .The precise action of the maids always left me speechless. Many a time noni our maid would ask me to leave her trailing sari pallu alone with my tight clutches significantly reducing her pace. The floor would be always swept clean as an aftermath .The strong clinical odour of phenyl refusing to leave the senses alone and yet failing hopelessly to wipe off a deep sense of despair caused due to the loss of a precious thing often called life. Sometimes weekend cleanliness drives to sweep off cobwebs by Alekh the peon, of Ma`s clinic would dislodge the nests and cause the fragile shells to break. More than the fatal consequences, my mother would grimace at the fishy odour that emanated pervading the clean atmosphere of our home masking the fragrance spread by the jasmine and the mogras arranged religiously on flat saucers especially in summers. I found the strong refusal of the odour to leave the rooms alone despite the caustic treatment that followed, especially in the monsoons as distinctly unpleasant. As I grew up the incidences lost their gravity and became commonplace. It was only later when I saw similar reactions from Koustubh , my nephew, that made me realize the loss of sensitivity which probably maturity  had sown in me irrevocably replacing innocence with callousness ,well at least almost.

I never realized of their steadily dwindling numbers, or their total disappearance, till one day I could `not find any while I was wondering about them much later in life in another house in another city. It was until much later that I realized the loss of innocence that probably work, situations, and occurrences caused making deep inroads into my existence encroaching upon my life, and robbing it of some if not many emotions and feelings, mostly unannounced and determined working upon their unsuspecting victims.

The vivid image of the swiftly flying dragon flies in their vivid blue and green colours adding life to our garden and the field outside it, will always be an important part of my life. Of the many things that I would be envious of apart from being thin, fair and beautiful was the dexterous ability of some members of a group of children of which I was probably a non-happening member of. Their enchanting capacities of ensnaring dragon flies in flight or while they were sucking nectar from flowers always reminded me of my deep inadequacies. While the blue ones were the prized catches, the regular and plentiful green ones were the common victims probably because of their large numbers. I was a member of this group before I was five, which boasted of having experts who would win the number game of capturing fifteen twenty and some times even more flies. By a swift cupping of their palm they trapped the unsuspecting insects shocking them into captivity exhibiting their fiercely determined and peremptory intentions. In one flash moment the depravity of freedom was more than visible in the desperate fluttering of their gossamer thin wings during captivity. The experts would never stop at one but go one to catch more and follow it up by the painful act of tying threads in their tail supplied by non-performers like me more so an overt effort for acceptance than the consequence. I would watch the fierce struggles that would ensue between the hapless victims and the powerful captors and their final inevitable surrender. The painful process of tying a thread on their segmented and frail tail remained a distant memory The gnawing fear that arose after each act mostly arising due to hearing that each harmful act begets pain were probably were my first lessons on retribution, divine or otherwise. My exit from the group was not only because I realized of the futility of the entire enterprise but more so to escape Ma`s fury. Her extreme disapproval of such misadventures made clear from the very nature of the deep tone she used to show her displeasure whenever she caught me in the wrong was more than adequate to make me desist my efforts. Her presence forced the champions to fleeing away the scene too with promptness difficult to match. It was during one of my bedtime confessions that Ma explained the selfishness of the act that helped me to outgrow the habit swiftly .I always look back in my yesteryears thinking of what must have become of the champion attackers. Long after I grew up and that I realized from the dwindling numbers of playing children and play grounds of the marauding effects of modernity, champions of corrosion eroding the vestiges of childhood, forcibly evicting innocence from its tiny cocoon.

The advent of the monsoons would inevitably bring back memories of the tiny velvety beauties called ladybirds. Between the dark ominous clouds, thunders, lightning, erratic electricity supply, crisp pakoras and steaming hot khichudi roasted bhuttas and the red velvet coated beauties. Adding the much needed colour and gaiety to the lush green foliage and luscious undergrowth with their slow yet sure footed crawl and strong colour these daintily dressed individuals made their presence more than felt with their satin smooth coats accessorized perfectly with symmetrical black spots. Innocently crawling into traps the unsuspecting victims mostly were treasured in small empty matchboxes. I sometimes came back home from school in my early years with such matchboxes and watch the captive inmates in wonder as I opened them secretively during sleepy afternoons away from the prying glances of everyone.  Once Ma caught me doing this and explained the sad outcome that could befall the attractive creatures that made me understand my mistake. I still remember my reluctance transforming into amazement and happiness as I saw the slow crawl becoming faster as I released the hapless victim from its entrapment. As my respect for the captors turned into indifference and still later into a pain I understood how Ma taught me my first lessons of compassion and empathy. Many years later Koustubh my nephew bought a toy a lady bird one of his favourites , which forced me to recess into the past and remember similar acts which were small yet made  a deep impact in my life.

Sailing paper boats just after a downpour were another inevitable extension of the monsoons. Synonymous with the season they broke the moist humid interludes and the monotony with their appearances. Narayani Mausi`s undeniable expertise in making the boats still remind me of my failure to do so. Generally made from old newspapers, cast off prescriptions discarded papers, and some time old pages of copies these frail creations were two types and while one was ordinary its pocketed version was undeniably exotic. The sight of these floating beauties after a downpour in every available source of flowing water was common. They spared nothing and their progress in huge old iron buckets, overflowing tubs of stored water or drains left an indelible impression on me. Mausi would happily make them for me every time I asked for it and the miniatures from prescription were always on my table waiting for an opportunity to break free into the uncertain and forge ahead without even a glance at the past and forging ahead with a surety difficult to emulate. I never mastered the art of making one ,despite some trials but the innate sense of happiness, which the floating creations gave me, remains prized and something to cherish my childhood.