Cookie Box For Thread and Needles

Just another day, a regular day. I am binge watching "Friends", all ten seasons of it, just to prepare myself for the "Friends Reunion". Beside me, he is ‘working’, apparently this is the new normal. He is completely immersed in his client calls and tally numbers, doesn’t even spare a second to lift up his head to see what’s happening around. I wonder whether what all those people who once advocated the ‘dignity of labour’ had to say about this new work-style, about the modern slaves.

 

Hm.. with a mellow sigh I look at him hoping to catch his attention. No, his eyes are firmly fixed onto the screen. Unable to resist myself from adoring him, I caress his hair. What’s that Portuguese word? Oh yes, cafuné... right! I see his moustache and beard pulled up as he quietly smiles. I run my slender fingers through his hair, and in a second, the smooth run is disturbed by a strand of thread. I try to look for the thread, but he is becoming agitated. I take my hands off, and wait for him to pool in all his focus on his work. Within minutes, he’s back tallying his numbers on screen, and I run my fingers again to catch that thread. I find it and I pull it up, what I see is not a thread from his cardigan nor from my skirt, this thread is from a different fabric. As I continue to pull the thread, he is disturbed again. This time, I move closer to him, and as I pull some more of the thread, I bite it off from the longer strand before he notices or gets irritated. Running into the kitchen, I quickly roll the thread piece and hide it in my Malibu cookie box, which is now my new tin box of secret artifacts! I ask him nothing about it, and he too seems to have nothing on his mind to share. We retire for the day.

 

The next day too begins as just another day, and the two us go about with our work. I free myself this evening and catch up on "Moby Dick". Melville’s novel is pretty big, I had only read the illustrated and abridged versions up until now. This time, I bought the original novel, and made it a point to read it through no matter how long it would take me to finish the book. I just finished ‘Chapter 45’, and by now I have picked up a few words of the seamen’s diction and a point or two about whales, particularly the sperm whales. Before I begin reading the next chapter, he comes and sits near me, with his head on my lap and flips the channel. Today, even before I could run my fingers through his hair, I found the thread sticking out. Like the previous day, I start pulling this thread again, this time the length exceeds than the previous cut. I carefully hide it from him and take it into the kitchen to store it in my precious little cookie box.

 

Days pass, and my cookie box slowly fills up with the several strands of thread that I cut every day. First, his hair comes unwinding, then his forehead, his eyes and ears, nose and lips, every part loosens up into colours of flesh pink, red, brown and black. I continue to pull the thread, and his arms come down, soon his legs too unwind. The last pull, the last strand of thread, the last toe, he is now thread strands. For the next few days, I ponder over what to do with these strands that sleep in my cookie box. I think, I think hard, and then I decide. I take out my spinning needles, connect all those thread strands and let my mind work through my hands. I am unaware of what shape the new knitting is going to take, but I relentlessly knit.

 

Before my eyes, the leaves are first ones to take the shape, and then with the shade of brown, I make the branches which then twines up with the trunk. The new shape is finally ready, and I place this one along with other trees. I hear some murmurs, perhaps the new pattern doesn’t look one bit similar to that of the older counterparts. They gossip! I sense that the new pattern is going to encounter some troubles when alone. Without thinking too much, I leave the pattern and the rest of the crew. As I take a few steps away from them, I hear rustling noise, I look back and I see that the new pattern has already shed a few leaves, and the other trees have come closer to the new member. Unable to perceive the situation, I simply leave them.

 

The next day, I come out to see the new member. It appears as if there is no life in it though it is standing still. I do not comprehend this and not wanting to spare much thought on this, I turn back. I hear the noise again. This time, I choose not to look. The noise grows. I simply ignore and go inside. As the days go by, the new member is no longer new, and the rustling sound has also receded. But sometimes, I hear them whisper my name.