Q is for…

…Quilt

Dust motes wafting in the waning autumn sunlight.

Not unlike the lint particles dancing in tune to the thump-thump rhythm of the razai* maker’s staff as it magically weaves air into soft cotton wool; binding sterile whiteness to warm colours. A marriage of convenience.

Like a baraat® parading colour and finery, razais decked in deep maroons embellished with golden threads, green leaves and dainty vines, heady oranges – all promising to bring a dreary winter to life.

Warmth made to order.

Unlike its western cousin, the duvet, a razai wears its colours loud and proud – flamboyant, smug even, in its allure, knowing that no matter how far and long the traveller has been, when the cold winter night descends, (s)he is bound to crawl into its warmth, shedding her weariness of the day. Loathe to leave its embrace when the weak sunlight filters through the jaali^ windows, she lies snuggled for five more minutes. Or ten.

*Rajai/razai = Quilt made in parts of the Indian subcontinent (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Razai)

** cotton wool

®Wedding procession

^ net/wire mesh

Note: Somehow I always find my way back to the theme of “home”. Among other things, home for me is memories. This piece is an ode to one. I first wrote it as an entry for a litrary competition.

A celebration

There is so much I want to tell you but don’t know where to start. I hesitate also, to wonder, how does it even matter in the grand scheme of things, what I say or I don’t. In which case, let me say it anyway.

Reclaiming these pages from silence has been my intention for many weeks now, if for no other reason than the fact that I have missed haunting this space. Some time toward the end of March, a dear friend asked me to bring back the joker, and reinject some mirth here. Whilst I will not be doing that today, I was thrilled that my friend remembers and cherishes a part of me that I remember fondly.

I remember too all the hurt that spirited young woman condensed into funny lines and snarky self-deprecation; turning heartbreak into comedy; seeking validation via her art. Today I want to tell her, I am so proud of you. You never gave up on me. Yes we chased rainbows and perfection, but you never stopped believing. Believing that I would always look out for us. That even as we evolve we would never lose touch with who we are, Whilst change is/was constant so is your trust. Why am I writing in third person? Because sometimes, many times, and for some, most times, you need to be your own advocate, your own best friend, your own champion.

So today, I will use this space to honour that person who I was, who people read in these pages, but mostly that woman who kept showing up, rain or shine, striding, stumbling, seeking, sharing, resisting and striking out on her own. The woman I am today, owes so much to the girl I was. And I don’t ever want to forget that.

So whilst we never found the pot of gold at the end of said rainbow, we found something even better; we found us. Messy, unfinished, fulfilled in parts, filled with longing, imperfect, us. An endless work in progress, full of paradox(es?i?), ever flowing, but most importantly, some one who is enough. And who is learning to not be afraid of being enough.

To you who is reading, I don’t know what you may glean from the above, but if you find yourself reflected at any point, I wish for you peace and congruence. Thank you for indulging me, and you are welcome.

Our own groovy kind of love

Disclaimer: Not all these kids are mine! But they are well loved 😀

This is what happiness has evolved into – big, uninhibited, carefree belly laughs, surrounded by little persons, celebrating 10 years of love-life and all in between with this big-hearted buffoon; and of course cake.

Not a quintessential romantic, picture perfect couple, we have learnt (to an appreciable extent) to live comfortably in our respective skins, expecting very little of the other, and cherish the love and friendship we share*. It may sound bleak to some, but to us it means the world, it means that we never lost ourselves irrevocably in/to one another. We remain him and I. And that’s the best gift I could ever have.

To the man I married, I love you.

Happy 10 years.

*Hopefully the husband agrees. I am sure he will tell me after reading this post. IF he reads it at all! So that’s two questions covered 😀