The small hands gently traced the gnarled bony ones, holding them as he reassured her, “You can do it Dadi!” in a sing song voice, emulating his mother.
The old woman sat demurely, feeling the softness and the warmth gently reassuring her.
“So, can you make something for the sale?”
“What are you selling, babu?” she inquired gently.
“Dadi you forgot? We are raising money for our school. You said you will knit some socks.”
Kamala tried hard to recall when had she promised the little heart throb that. She smiled and ruffled the soft curls on his head, “Oh! But I have not been able to hold my knitting needles steady since a few days. Let’s see if there is something I had made earlier? Will that suffice?”
Varun was flummoxed. How could Dadi do this? Whatever would Ms Sushma say? He had confidently bragged about his Dadi’s amazing soft, colourful socks… ‘warm and cheerful’!
Keeping his disappointment at bay, he adopted his mother’s tone again, “Lets look in your cupboard!”
They pulled out a red cap, a bright blue muffler, a couple of cardigans with flowers and motifs stitched on. But not even one socks!
Ever since Kamala had been forgetting things, she had started feeling terrible. Often she would find the long sqiggly arms of a monster steal her memories. It was like an octopus, reclining quietly in the depths of her mind and then slowly it surfaced, pinching memories, her precious memories devouring them into his insatiable, bottomless stomach.
Among the many things her son insisted she do were walk in the morning sunshine and knit. Not only did it keep her occupied, she had also started beaming a little like the sun…. a pale image of her former self but nevertheless a smiling Kamala was any day better than a sad and disoriented one.
“Oh! Not one sock!” disappointment thickened his voice and lay heavy in the room.
“Lets look once more Babu!” she coaxed him, the apple of her eye.
Blinking away the tears that threatened to descend any time, Varun’s “Alright!” was barely audible.
He peeked into the cupboard, the last vestiges of hope had already slunk out like a thief at midnight, as he reached into the furthest, darkest corners. His searching fingers touched something soft and woolly. The despondent look was quickly replaced with a quizzical one. Excitement seared his arm. Half of him disappeared inside. As he emerged he held a pair of the cutest baby booties. Pristine white, a little yellowed with age, the fisherman’s rib- a meticulous sample of the knitter’s love and skill. Varun’s eyes were as large as saucers, holding the most astonished look.
“So pretty!” he whispered with awe.
“Who did you make this for, Dadi?” he asked once he found his voice and the spell was broken.
“You like them?”
“Of course! Let’s make the card for it first. Miss Sushma will definitely say ‘Very Good Varun!’”
The joy in his voice made her smile and giggle too.
“I made it for my son, long ago. It took me ages to complete it.”
“Oh! You made it for Daddy? Why did he not wear them?”
“My son had grown up by then. I didn’t make them for your Daddy!
“My son lives far away. One day he will come to take me. Will you come with me?” she was mumbling and rambling.
“Write:
‘For sale: Baby shoes!’ Kamala felt satisfied.
“Better we add ‘never worn’ too Dadi, some people will like that they are brand new.”
“Are you sure? I made them long ago for my son.”
“So, why were they never worn?”
“I think my boy had gone away, I think he was stolen… I must ask that nice man who comes to see me daily.” A tear broke free from her eye and rolled down her gaunt cheek.
Sometimes she did not understand why she had tears or felt like crying.
Varun wiped her tear gently, hugged her and said, “That’s my father and your son, Dadi! Now let me go and put this away.”
That night, Varun narrated the find for the charity sale to his father, while being tucked in.
“Dadi made the most beautiful booties for you. But why did you not wear them Baba?”
“I don’t know! I was too small, I think I have forgotten. But good for you, your teacher will be glad.”
A smile spread across the cherubic face. “But, why did she say you went away and that you were stolen?” quizzed he, desperately trying to keep his eyes open while his eyelids were being pulled shut like the curtains at the end of a play.
He could not see the tears appear and race down his father’s face. A face that did not try to hide the pain of losing his mother when very young. Probably as old as Varun at the moment.
Tears had ruled their home for long. Sometimes it was his father, at other times it would be him. Sometimes it would be both, hugging each other for comfort, for solace and probably to fill the gap of the missing person in their life.
Next day the teacher was gobsmacked on receiving the pair of exquisitely made baby shoes and the card:
“ BABY SHOES ,NEVER WORN, FOR SALE!”
Varun’s grandmother’s dementia was not a secret for her.
PN: This was written for ArtoonsInn June prompt for #Inntales6
