By Geetanjali Sharma
As I walk around my home, at four in the morning, in absolute silence, the wooden floor cracks and squeaks under my cold feet. With all the rooms turned dark and street lights flickering with the rhythm of the winter rain, I quietly get back to my room, with a ball of deep ochre yarn and my crochet hook. I gently pull the woollen blanket back on my knees and turn on the antique brass side lamp to begin to crochet.
Just like it is to read a book to unfold the stories of an unrested mind, the art of crocheting too brings along the story of the one doing it.
With the ticking of the clock and yarn rolling into a pattern, I hear the curtains outside being drawn, a sign that the world is slowly waking up and sharing the silence with me. My eyes take a glance at the date on the digital clock which distracts me to wonder that from cruising into the new year to settling in, a month has already flown by.
As the morning light falls and our dogs find their way back to the lush lawn, winter warmth kicks in. Hues of the wild foliage bring a sense of calm and comfort. The slow warmth is carried from dawn to dusk till the bonfire is lit. A crystal goblet, bought from a local artisan back in the late eighties, sits on the table counter, ready to carry some merlot to go with a turntable playing May I by Bill Deal and The Rhondels.
Still in my bed, my window opens to the view of my paradise. With a wonder-struck heart, I gaze at the dawning sky and remember the days that have become my strongest memories. With a calming expression, I pick up the overturned book from the previous evening and find myself on chapter five titled ‘On the Other Side’. It begins with a brief pause, a humbling introduction and an overly optimistic tone which could have been very appealing to me, once upon a time.
By now, the rooms are filled with morning sunshine, brightening the carved teak cabinets and rested smiles. I wear my plush robe and make my way to my coffee corner with a frame reading ‘But First… Coffee’. With a steaming cup of coffee warming my hands, I take a moment to enjoy the fine aroma and pan towards the endless beauty of the valley.
As I make my way to soak in the winter sun, I find myself revisiting a memory — my mother preparing a picnic basket with my toys, some oranges, and, her potli of yarn and crochet hook. We used to spend our mornings on the terrace, sitting on a weaved bamboo mat, talking in tune with each other.
Now, with life finding its way for us, we still take in the winter sun but in different cities. Our time is divided yet the quick chats leave us in good spirits. And our conversations often bring in this memory, one that warms our hearts every time. With the last sip of my coffee, I take out my crochet craft from my potli, casually lay my legs on a stone step and begin to finish the baby throw.
(Geetanjali Sharma is an author and communications specialist. She holds a post-graduate degree in international communication from Macquarie University, Australia.)
