The Lost World

The summers were not as severe in Kolkata in those days. The traffic, and the minds of the people in the vehicles were less Brownian and a little more accommodating than they are today. It was on one such day that the little old lady took her "ladies" umbrella, put her feet in cloth pump shoes and set forth towards Gariahat, the Mecca of shopping for Bengali womankind. She boarded the "mini" bus (a mode of transportation that was invented around the same time as the wheel itself) that had precariously yet unfailingly taken her to her destination for the past forty years.

The Gariahat, was Bengal's own Quincy market (the past tense being deliberately used since the place isn't the same anymore). Along the main road stood jewelry, clothing, utensil and eatery stores that had captured the imagination of the Bengali woman for decades. However, all of that was not what put Gariahat at the highest echelon of places to visit on a sultry summer weekend. It was the "footpath" that did. This footpath was a mockery made of some wise Englishman's or a rich zamindar's or a visionary babu's dream of instilling a sense of order in a Bengali marketplace. Over time, a creed of humans called hawkers had set up quasi-stalls made of bamboo on it and had subsequently cemented their establishment. They sold all items on God's earth starting from Sherlock Holmes-style pipes, to door mats, frying pans, men's pyjamas, women's petticoats, bangles, necklaces, and woollen balls. Yes, woollen balls! And that was what had drawn the little lady to the thoroughfare that day.

Women, of all shapes, sizes, ages, temperaments, and professions conflated at this place with a singular objective of haggling with the hawkers, in whom they saw a personal rival who could be punched, pummeled (both, verbally of course) and eventually brought to submission. Bargaining for an article (as paltry as a teaspoon) typically began with the hawker quoting an exorbitant rate; To which, the woman would promptly retort that she could buy an entire dining set at that cost! The hawker would then swear by his mother that the article was "original" and in fact, "imported". This of course was before the Chinese had started mass production of almost everything on this planet and the word "imported" was synonymous with quality. The little lady however was beyond such silliness, and the hawkers loved her so. They called her Mashima, or a respected aunt.

So, Mashima came back home with a bag full of woollen balls of her choicest colour. The room, that once bathed in sunlight was now held captive by the rapidly encroaching constructions all around. She remember how her husband would close the windows every afternoon to keep the room cool. She now opened them to let the leftover sun rays in. From under the pillow she brought out the shell eyeglass frame and from the wooden cupboard came out the carefully preserved knitting book. She had seen those designs a million times and knew them too well. Yet this was a ritual she followed. It was like reciting the Gayatri mantra before the start of a day's work. The brown teddy bear would not look apt on a teenager's sweater, she thought. Nor would a strand of three-petalled flowers. And, he may feel embarrassed to wear a pink and yellow checked pattern. "Grandchildren, why do they grow up?", she thought in despair. It was so much easier to pick three bright colours and knit a cute sweater a decade ago. "Why do they grow, so fast, and; Why do they have to be so far?", she thought. She wished he was here so she could measure him well. The last time she guessed, he turned out to be a couple of inches taller. She felt impatient; perhaps it was the age that was catching up. She slept for an hour.

Months passed and the little lady kept at it with the perseverance of a weaver bird knitting its nest. She had promised the boy that he would have his sweater before the winter. But there had been talk that the winter that year would not be severe. What if it turned to be true? When would he ever wear this full-sleeved sweater? "More useless inhibitions that hinder my work", she thought to herself and adjusted her glasses. The drums and the conk shells heralded the advent of the festive season. The entire community came to a standstill in the name of the Goddess, as the little woman willed herself towards the finishing line.

The sweater, in all its resplendence hung on the wooden hanger which for so many years had held her husband's white shirt. Her husband always liked a neat pressed shirt, she thought, fondly remembering him. A sense of accomplishment filled her. She was a little woman; but she hated defeat. She thought of the festive times when the family would gather at the house. She imagined her grandchildren running around the house, with her husband behind them frantically trying to restore order and decorum. She thought of her son, her daughters, her parents. She looked at the sweater and remembered the happy times, till she felt tired, and slept. The drums clamoured and the horns blared, but they did not bother the little woman. Such minor annoyance could only perturbed the amateur.                        


Note: The vastness of consumer stores in America have never failed to surprise me. With so much to sell and so few buyers, I have often wondered how any of them make a profit. Today, I was wandering in one such store when my eyes fell upon a heap of woollen balls of diverse colour. It made me think how obsolete these objects have suddenly become. I perhaps belong to the last generation who have had the privilege of wearing home-knit sweaters (Grandma-made ones I mean). That chain of thought culminated in the above article.