A Stitch In Time

Nivedita looked out of the window. As twilight engulfed the city, lights had started winking in several windows. The western sky looked like a smudged palette of warm colors gradually giving way to cool ones. Orange giving way to pink which gradually deepened to blue and purple. Back home, Mom would have taken a look at the sky and gone foraging for plump mackerel in the fish market the next day. “A good month for the mackerel, when the sky is painted like this. That’s what my aunts always told me”, she had repeated this to Nivedita so many times, that Nivedita could not stop muttering this mantra involuntarily whenever she saw this panorama. Of course, this had been back home in Goa. Delhi was too far away and too far inland to boast of anything but well- preserved sea-food. Here, fresh sea-food meant something kept on a slab of ice for two days, not hauled to market from the docks in twenty minutes.

The blue and purple were rapidly replacing the pink and orange now. Just like the frenetic Delhi way of life had replaced her laid back ways. Nivedita could hardly recognize herself these days. The face with its wheatish complexion, large dark eyes, snub nose and black curls was familiar enough, but the attitude was unrecognizable. She had grown tougher. A brash new persona had replaced the diffident one. A person who thought nothing of voicing her opinions, irrespective of whom they offended. But most importantly, never backing down from a challenge, the bigger and more impossible seeming, the better.

This hour and this month were kind to the city, she mused, as more and more lights winked on. It was that time when early winter approached on noiseless paws, the time of the golden fall which existed in the much- romanticized world of cinema and foggily happy memory. It was too early for the stubble burning and the wheezing and the reports of ‘fog over Delhi delays flights to all corners of the known world’. The city was decked up like a new bride. The ‘season’ had begun. Cultural, festive, and literary activities of all sorts, coupled with exhibitions of all kinds, food fairs and of course the annual fashion shows. When one was pursuing a Masters in Design at NIFT, one had to keep abreast of all such fashion launches and lunches.

 Normally, Nivedita’s thoughts calmed down with the deepening twilight. Unlike some who were inspired by the dawn, she was inspired by dusk, which she somehow related to homecoming. But today, they refused to be lulled. They were as jumbled as the colorful skeins of silk which she kept in a large basket in her room. Distilling the essence of the lights, the colors of the sky, her Goan home, and traditional weaves, they gave rise to a new pattern, mostly blue and grey like her mood, but shot through with cheerful yellow, like hope and happiness had turned up hand-in-hand with gloom and were clamoring to be let in. She shook her head in dismay. She liked everything to be neat and orderly, like threads on a loom, where warp and weft gave rise to a definite pattern. A jumbled abstract and you never knew what would emerge. She finally acknowledged the real reason behind her confusion and accompanying unhappiness. An email had just arrived from her aunt requesting (actually commanding) her to design a one- of- a- kind outfit for her cousin Nandini’s convocation in December.

She grabbed her sketch book and drew a few swift lines in charcoal, imagining Nandini, of the svelte, tall build, dusky complexion and long hair. An inward giggle surfaced at what the serious fogies at the convocation would think if the apparel was too avantgarde. Maybe, they would finally get a life by first goggling at the outfit and then talking about it for days. But the designs did not deign to flow. Her inability to refuse her aunt’s request point blank made her head pound in frustration. Self-loathing and the attendant negativity make for powerful dampers to creativity.  

An hour later, she was still at her desk, her eyebrows knit in frustration. Although the color scheme was right, she could not visualize the right effect on any fabric. She nearly slammed her laptop shut, but caught herself in time. The last time she had done that, the laptop seemingly possessed of a cranky will of its own, not unlike hers, had called it a day and she’d nearly wrecked her project. This was not going to be easy.

She had had a prodigious memory for colors and weaves ever since she was a child. She was happiest twirling around in silks, whenever she could get a hold of the sarees from her mother’s or aunt’s cupboards. The visits to the temple of the family deity had been special not because she was particularly pious, but these visits meant that she could feast her eyes on the sarees and jewelry which always adorned the idol of the Goddess. Photography was strictly forbidden in the temple, but she been unable to help herself on a couple of occasions and had taken the forbidden photos, thanks to the ubiquitous cell phone. Her uncle had been particularly unhappy because he had had a lot of explaining and apologizing to do to the head priest, thanks to her flouting the rules with impunity.

As she sat there in the dark, blinking bleary eyed at the screen, she felt herself being sucked into the whirlpool of old memories, from which she had extricated herself with much difficulty when she had finally fled her old life to a new one in where else? New Delhi!  As the pictures of the past swirled before her eyes, she saw herself as a wide-eyed seven- year-old, clapping, as Nandini, her nine- year- old cousin was awarded the general proficiency prize for topping her class for the academic year. For a couple of months after that, the entire household comprising her father, uncle, aunt, grandparents had extolled Nandini’s achievements to anyone who cared or did not care to listen. Her second-place award in art lay neglected in her cupboard. Mom took it out and polished it and smiled encouragingly but, the damage had begun. It was Nivedita’s first remembered encounter with unfavorable comparison.

And from then on, it never stopped. She was exhorted to become ‘just like Nandini Didi’, who soared from one academic achievement to another, which finally culminated in her securing admission in the All- India Institute of Medical Sciences, Rishikesh, having performed splendidly in her medical entrance exams.  Nobody with the exception of her mother stopped to think that Nivedita’s interests lay elsewhere, in the world of art, rather than academics. “Who is she trying to be? Raja Ravi Verma or M. F. Hussain sans the beard?”, the rest of the family scoffed. “Tell her to study well and not waste so much time in drawing, Vishakha. Art is okay as hobby, not as a profession unless she wants to study architecture”, this was her grandmother, who thought that being a professor of mathematics gave her the right to offer her opinion on all things under the sun.

But her family with the exception of her mother failed to realize that their hopes were a crushing burden on little Nivedita, who wanted nothing else other than to design beautiful clothes. Her hands wanted to wield scissors and a sewing machine. Not a scissors and a scalpel. She wanted to stitch intricate patterns on cloth, not on the skin. She cringed whenever her father looked at neat patterns she stitched and declared that she had inherited the ‘nimble fingers of a surgeon’. It was only when her performance in Class Ten had been far less than stellar had the rest of her family reluctantly accepted the fact that she would not follow in Nandini’s footsteps. As the number of articles earmarked for her in the newspaper slowly waned and her views on many topics like politics and music were dismissed, she started to rethink what she meant to them. Black sheep like her were created, not born.

The final straw had been when she announced her desire to apply to the NIFT. “Masterji, who owns the corner shop is a fashion designer too. Old as the hills and still stitches my blouses perfectly”, sniffed her aunt, a smug look on her face which declared that she was indeed blessed to have a daughter, who was a ‘sound person’, unlike her frivolous niece. “Not everyone becomes Abu Jani and Sandeep Khosla. And look at those wretched models of that Sabyasachi. Chee, chee! What is the world coming too”, her uncle pitched in.

Dad’s shoulders slumped in defeat the day her application was accepted. It was a grey rainy day in September four years ago when she boarded the flight which would spirit her away to the land of her dreams, accompanied only by her mother. Her father had unearthed a conference which he just had to attend. The rest of the family had not even bothered to come up with convincing excuses, just heaved a sigh of relief that she, the blot on the family escutcheon was making herself scarce. It very different from the time when Nandini had journeyed to AIIMS, when the atmosphere had been carnival-like. The whole family had happily taken a week’s holiday to see her off and settle her in. The turbulent flight to Delhi was just a reflection of her mood and thoughts. She had decided that visits home would henceforth be very few, far between and very brief. Not to be undertaken unless absolutely necessary.

And that was exactly what she had done. She knew Mom would have liked her to come home more often, but being Mom, she always put Nivedita’s happiness before her own. She journeyed to Delhi to visit Nivedita as often as she could. She was that single strand of silk, flimsy as hope, but strong as courage which kept Nivedita rooted to home. But now, home had come knocking at her doors. The family would be journeying to Rishikesh en masse and they would ‘swing’ by Delhi first. Her life was swinging by its threads again…….

The Pais were an excited lot as the plane banked for the final approach to the New Delhi runway. The briefest of stops here and they would soon be on their way to their real destination: Rishikesh. That magnificent town in the Himalayas, so pure, so serene and so different from where they lived, Panaji. While Rishikesh boasted of the Ganga, Panaji lay on the shores of the sea. One was a haven of cold clear and crisp mountain air while the other was home to balmy sea breezes. One was a temple town. The other, a bustling capital city. None of this mattered to the Pais however. They were only concerned about the thread connecting the two: Nandini of the meritorious achievements, soon to graduate from AIIMS.

“I hope Nivedita has kept the dress ready. I had emailed her ages ago. Is she still as forgetful, Vishakha?”, Shreejaya, asked her co-sister, in an arch tone meant to needle and a smile meant to lacerate as the Innova ferrying all of them to the NIFT from the airport nosed out into the traffic making vain attempts at gathering speed. Vishakha, however possessed of a calm the Himalayas would have been proud of, refused to be riled and rise to the obvious bait. “I am sure she will have remembered, Vahini. She always keeps her promises, even the unpleasant ones”, her tone held just a hint of admonishment for her co-sister’s sarcasm at her daughter’s expense. Vaman, Vishakha’s husband, cleared his throat in an attempt to douse the potential storm which was brewing. “Let us get to the NIFT as quickly as possible. We don’t want to miss the train to Rishikesh”. Madhav, his older brother and Shreejaya’s husband wore a disapproving frown. “If Nivedita had agreed to come to the airport as I had suggested in the first place, we wouldn’t have had to go all the way to NIFT. But she will never listen”. He looked pointedly at a train of reluctant miserable looking mules being herded by a gaunt man in a faded lungi of questionable vintage, who seemed rather free with curses and thwacks from the long staff he carried.

Vishakha flinched. Her brother-in-law would never acknowledge that the mules moved reluctantly because of the thwacks, not because they were mulish. The Innova suddenly surged ahead as the traffic cleared and soon, they were passing through tall gates topped by an even taller board reading “National Institute of Fashion Technology, New Delhi”, leading onto the sylvan environs which Nivedita had called home for the past four years. Madhav, Shreejaya and their parents peered around in surprise. This was the first time that they had visited the Institute where their younger grand-daughter studied. The quirky buildings and the bustle were something which struck them as rather strange. They had never thought of college campuses as fun, exciting places, where students could have a good time in their pursuit of knowledge. Perhaps the strait-laced disciplines and strait-laced times when they had graduated had made them think of college campuses as dour buildings where one only pursued the worship of Saraswati. That learning could and should be made as enjoyable was a possibility which did not occur to them at all.

“This campus looks vast. Will Nivedita be waiting for us?”, Chandrakala, Vishakha’s mother-in-law turned to her with a frown, phrased as a question. “She said she would meet us”, Vishakha mumbled in an undertone, before directing the driver in the direction of the hostel. “We don’t have much time”, Yeshwant, her father-in-law boomed, as she peered around uncertainly, hoping to spot her daughter so that the melodrama could be as brief as possible. Vishakha knew that their train would not leave for another five hours, that they could easily spend some time trying to thaw the block of ice which seemed to have replaced her daughter’s heart. By exploring the campus and getting to know what her artistic daughter truly did. But she also knew the kind of churlish people they were. They disapproved of Nivedita for following her dreams and nothing could convince them that her dreams were worth embracing too.

They had pulled up at the hostel by now and Vishakha alighted uncertainly, fumbling in her bag for her mobile. Nivedita should have been here by now. Or was she taking some perverse joy in keeping them all waiting in a place which they disapproved of? Hurt could harden into strange emotions which could make one behave in a way which was totally out of character. “The person you are trying to reach is out of coverage area”, after listening to this message a couple of times and feeling the waves of heat emanating from the car gradually raising the temperature of the chill Delhi morning, Vishkaha decided to call Manpreet, Nivedita’s ‘roomie and mate’. It had been under Manpreet’s able wing that Nivedita had transformed into the confident Delhiite from the diffident Goan.

“Auntieji, tussi kab aaye? Phone karna tha. Main gate pe aa jati receive karne”, Manpreet materialized at her shoulder before she had dialled the number. “I am so glad to see you, Manpreet. Nivedita kidhar hai? We have just come to pick up the dress she had designed for her cousin’s convocation. We are to travel to Rishikesh today”, Vishakha began her fumbling explanations. She always found the slight disapproval in Manpreet’s direct stare disconcerting, as if Manpreet was privy to the way Nivedita had been slighted at home, as she perhaps was, deserved to be. All boats cast adrift looked for a safe harbour and Manpreet was Nivedita’s.

“Haan, haan, woh sab to theek hai Auntieji. Nivedita has not done much else for the past two weeks. But yesterday, a strange thing happened. Aap chalo aur dekho. Nivedita will probably kill me, but I think she deserves it”, Manpreet’s words made no sense to an already bewildered Vishakha. “Is Nivedita alright? Nothing is wrong with her?”, Waman’s worried voice sounded behind her. “Arre nahin Uncleji! Tussi fikar na karo”, Manpreet sounded as reassuring as a twenty-two- year- old with a ton of attitude could sound.

“Then where is she? She was supposed to meet us near the gate”, Madhav and Shreejaya had as usual leapt into the conversation before they looked. “We will be late for our daughter’s convocation. She studies in AIIMS Rishikesh, you know”. Manpreet’s scowl of disapproval did not need deciphering. “So”, it said, “You are the people who tend to make my friend’s life hell”. Without a word, Manpreet turned on her heel and marched of leaving them to trail behind her like a wake, part worried and part disapproving.  Manpreet marched into a low red-brick building, marked ‘Director Office and Exhibition Hall’.

She opened the door quietly and motioning them to be quiet led them to a few seats right next to the door, in the very last row. The centre of the hall was filled with glass cases with various pieces of fabrics, which glistened and shone in the glow of the soft spotlights which rained down like shower of molten gold. Before they could be seated, Manpreet pulled out a few lanyards with attached cards and hastily told them to put them around their necks, so that they would not be accosted and led from the room by a posse of formidable looking security personnel, whom Yeshwant recognised to be members of the special forces. Manpreet seemed to be intently convincing one of them that the Pais were here as spectators and not potential suicide bombers.

Next to one of the glass cases stood Nivedita, in intense conversation with a plump lady in a silk saree with a large red bindi on her forehead. Seated beside Vishakha, Shreejaya drew in her breath sharply as she recognised Anandi Shetye, a minister in the Goan State Government. As Shreejaya’s lip curled in disapproval, she patted Nivedita on the shoulder before moving on to the other exhibits. As she was about to be ushered from the room, by the Director who seemed to be in transports of delight, she paused and beckoned Nivedita forward.

A mike appeared in her hands as if by magic. “It gives me great pleasure to see that a traditional weave from Goa has been tweaked to incorporate designs from one of the holiest temples of our land”, her voice was surprisingly loud for her small rotund shape. “I never thought that the humble Kunbi weave could be embellished by the design of the Bakula and Surangi flowers and incorporated into silk fabric to create a saree of which even the Goddess Shanteri would approve. But, Nivedita Pai seems to have done it. Although the first piece here is promised to her cousin as she tells me, I hope she sends in a second one to the National Textile Expo where I can proudly show it to the world as an example of what modern Goan art can be”.

 A collective sharp intake of breath was the only emotion displayed by various members of the Pai family as many of them realized the folly of comparing a rose to a lotus.  Anandi Shetye continued, “This is the talent I was looking for, which bridges the ancient and the modern. She wins the annual scholarship for best textile design for truly taking a stitch in time…..”.