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.