And A Veil to Tether

One of my colleagues says that veils fascinate her and I confess I have had veils on my mind since the past few weeks, all they reveal and represent, the hues they lend the world. Indeed, the blank canvas of the sky laughs with colors of life when seen through a veil, whether it be a flowing scarf, a dancing kite, or a twinkling paper lantern. To paraphrase a thousand Hindi songs, the unruffled dupatta changes climes and brings on Spring.

Like any South Eastern native, I can tell you what the scarves I wear represent: they supposedly represent female modesty, but if the same scarf were tied on a man's forehead, it would proclaim his pride in the tradition that birthed him. Freedom sings in the flight a girl's scarf sketches as she swings from a grandfather of a tree. The audience of a Hindi film knows the scarf well. With bated breath, we watch as the villain considers the innocent girl's scarf through a veil of cigarette smoke, and gasp as he snatches the dupatta off the terrified girl; the camera focuses on the swinging, broken lamp smashed in the ensuing struggle and we all know that she is lost.

Most salwar suits come with a matching scarf or dupatta. The material for a dupatta must be special: it cannot be as heavy as the fabrics that actually cover and protect. In fact, it must be woven of texture light enough for the air to lift, which would require something heavier, like lace or a twice rolled hem to hold it against the wind and then it acquires a fall of graceful ripples. At the same time, the dupatta must match the heavier cloth it is constructed to compliment, with an edging, with contrasting hues, or most frequently, with the same print as the salwar suit. The function of the dupatta, it seems, is to serve as the dream of the salwar suit.

I have worn through a lot of salwar suits, whose stitching has given out, whose exhausted weave has unravelled, but whose matching dupattas retain their original form. I collect them, lightly worn fabrics of numinous use, whose sole purpose seems to be to recall the varied textures our world is made of. When I tried to quilt them, I could not imagine the finished quilt, and they resisted my needle and the stodgy quilting threads, preferring to ripping to submission. Occasionally, I give them to my daughter and she uses them to make a statement of her jeans-and-t-shirt.

As I get older, I find that I need the wrapping of my scarves to protect me, to keep me warm and alive. I have begun to prefer the sky veiled in clouds, and today, on a cool day immediately following the Winter solstice, I look forward to the kite flying in January, which will welcome the sun back. Nothing says Spring like unfurled colors of insubstantial material.

I am working and my lap is not free for the cat. He paws at the laptop and looks inquiringly at me. Of course, I obey and spread my scarf. He accepts this extension of me and it is enough to envelop him, tie him to me beyond language and species. I look at the content, sleeping cat and wish for my dupatta to extend beyond my organic self and chronological life, to envelop and warm my child so that her universe may unfurl around her in weaves of many colors and textures, enriching her life, tethering her to me as she soars and flies off, like an un-achored kite, across unimaginable skies.

Well-Watered

There is a tree in the center of some of my stories. This tree stands near a well. All around these two swirl the many tales that need to be told, that once told, perch on a branch, like wish-threads, anchored, yet weaving in the passing breeze. Even though I have fastened a few, my basket of untold stories seems to be just as full as it was when I first began telling of the tree and the well.

Sometimes, this defeats me. I cannot imagine how I am to get words enough for these tales, if my life time, with its too, too many demands, will be long enough. Somehow that worries me more than availability of a receptive audience for the stories. The beings that live in, around, before and away from the tree nag me, haunt me, insist that I tell, though I don't know to what end. I don't think that these tales have any edifying value, or provide an insight about how one may improve oneself or enrich one's life. In fact, the stories are more dusky twilight than golden dawn. Worse, they offer no apologies for their dark hues.

I make a deliberate effort to help each story to stand on its own, a valid entity irrespective of the larger tapestry it helps weave. I explain to the tales that they all should be independent, as though they were my girl children and I, their concerned parent, were trying to impress upon them the importance of good grades that they may support themselves and their offspring instead of relying on their future wife-selves. However, they wish for nothing more than to gather near the well, sit cross legged beneath the spreading shade of their tree. No matter how far I have them wander, when I look behind, I find them clustered around their well, like Grimms' Twelve Months.

I hope to pass muster as I seek their guidance. I shall make an effort to be polite and offer them what poor nourishment my pockets hold. Most of all, I shall try to listen very closely to their riddles. After all, I could scarcely hope for a better map, no matter how dark or labyrinthine my wooded path!
 

The Suq at the Library

If you stood outside my door, you couldn't tell what month it was. Today, on my way to my chores, I caught myself wondering how far November was, just so the days could cool down a little! It is an awkward season caught at the wrong time of the year and all the rush to meet the holidays seems  strange and disconcerting. After all, when the sun shines so mercilessly, aren't we to prepare for the Summer vacations? Why is everyone talking of Christmas? That seems many many weather systems away! However, weather ready or not, the end of the year is almost on our threshold, almost knocking. It seems to be the right time to give little tokens, gifts to one's friends to show them how much they are appreciated, how grateful one is for all their patience and tolerance through the year. That part does not feel awkward to me because everyone else seems to feel the same way.

But here is the conundrum: what to give? What could one present that would assure a grin or a light or a smile upon first glance? In other words, where would one find a marketplace that sells objects that are as unique as they are familiar, things that are not hawked at every mall at every cross roads, but not so strange that no one understands what they are.

I wish for a global suq through which I can meander, exchanging friendly banter with the sellers, who are always in a good mood, who always have (for a pice) a cup of fresh coffee brewing for wanderers like me, a bazaar where, under a cloth shade, I'd find incredible treasures for my friends, treasures that even my meagre budget would allow.

I know what my patient reader would suggest: the Internet is one such bazaar and I would agree. In fact, this year, I put together my child's birthday gift basket solely out of things I'd bought online. However, that took me months of planning, ordering, approving, disapproving, a process that took a very very long time. And things I order online sometimes disappoint horribly and then what am I to do? So unless I KNOW the quality of my order, I avoid this particular marketplace.

However, this week, I found a wonderful suq, of all places, at my local county library. It is run solely by volunteers and boasts everything from Scottish tea chests, to scarves, to Vietnamese earrings, to purse hooks, to local art, to Spanish gold! The people at the desk are retired, do not have a personal stake in what they are selling, and at the same time, care deeply for the cause they espouse. They are always friendly, always ready to discuss the merits and demerits of the objects you are considering, and if they'd fit your friends, and yes, they have a complicated coffee machine that they are willing to fire up for a perfect cup (I could even choose my flavor!).

Patient, harried reader, compare this to the absolute incoherence that is your local mall at this time of the year. No sales personnel, no matter how their determined smile, has the time to discuss each object and determine its appropriateness, especially if they are not sure of a sale. If one sees something that looks extraordinary, one is likely to find something similar at the next kiosk. When we last went to a mall, we had to wait in a line for about 20 minutes before we could order our coffee and we definitely were NOT encouraged to choose our own flavors!

So, reader, if you find yourself overwhelmed, would rather meander among shelves of books than the exhaustingly cheerful stores, visit your local county library. You can meander to your hearts' content, maybe find some treasures, perhaps treat yourself to an armload of books, even check out an electronic reader if you are brave!

Who'd have thought that the love for reading could open even these doors!