By Ratna Manucha
It was the second quarter of 2023. My mother, an avid knitter, crossed over to the other side. There was nary a day when she was without her knitting and her pattern books. Watching her knit enveloped us in a sense of warm contentment and peace. All was well with the world.
We would constantly demand sweaters, gloves, scarves and mufflers in the most intricate patterns and she would oblige happily. Nothing made her happier than when she was poring over patterns, deciding which one to select for her loved ones. Over the years, I too, started knitting some simple, basic patterns, secure in the knowledge that if I got stuck, which was almost always, she would bail me out and complete my half-finished work. There was a strange kind of comfort in following in my mother’s footsteps, and it was fun to decide on colours and patterns with her.
Come autumn and we would be planning trips to the wool shop, deciding on the colours we needed to stock up on, (over the years there was just one tiny shop left – the others started selling different stuff, cause how many people knit nowadays and also winter seems to have made a silent but definite exit).
Since her passing, I have not been able to look at her shelves of knitting needles, patterns, or her collection of wool.
Cut to first quarter of 2025. My nine-year-old granddaughter got an amateur knitting kit from her friend as a birthday present. The kit consisted of two patterns, one for a small handbag and another for a coin purse, along with little balls of different coloured wool and a pair of bright yellow plastic knitting needles. The next morning, when all presents were being opened and this one popped out, my son opened the box, read the instructions and tried his hand at knitting. He struggled on determinedly for some time but gave up when it became obvious that he was quite unsuccessful.
I looked away hoping that he wouldn’t ask anything of me. He did just that.
Not overtly. Covertly. He handed over the kit to his daughter and told her to learn knitting from me. She skipped over to where I was sitting and handed over the kit to me excitedly. Unable to refuse, (how does one explain to a little girl?) I began to cast on the stitches all the while instructing her to look at my fingers.
But as is the wont of any nine-year-old, her attention began to wander, and she soon lost interest. She ran out to play but not before instructing me to complete the bag. Not knowing what else to do, I ploughed on.
It took me all of two days but, somehow, thoughts of my mother did not allow me to give up. Two days later, the bag was complete. Seeing my handiwork, her little sister asked me to make the coin purse for her.
The next day I started on my new project and completed that too.
I had picked up the knitting needles, albeit they were plastic ones.
Will I be able to pick up my mother’s needles and start knitting? I don’t think I’m strong enough yet.
Baby steps.
(Ratna Manucha is an academician, poet, columnist and author of fact and fiction. She lives, dreams and writes in Dehradun, her happy place.)
