Age of knitting

My grandmothers were constantly knitting, especially my father’s mum who was called Bibiji. Her real name was not that, of course not. But from my early childhood I had always seen everybody refer to her in this extremely respectful manner. 

A tall and upright woman, she had produced eight children and after the untimely demise of my grandfather, raised them almost single handedly. My dad was the eldest and was the closest to her in age also. She was all of 16 years old when he was born. Sometimes when they had a disagreement, he would forget to add the respected “ji” at the end of her designated title. 

Bibi, you will go and see the doctor at once, he would thunder, when she obstinately refused to get her routine medical checkups. We would try and mimic him from a safe distance, but end up having our mother box our ears instead. 

However, like I said, knitting is what she did, all the time. There was not one moment that I saw her without the clickety-click of the long needles. I automatically assumed that my Biji (short for Bibiji) made all the jumpers, cardigans and sweaters of the world. The sheer quantity of knitting that she did could have clothed an entire community in woolens. 

The only time she wanted my help was when she bought the unruly yarn and had to roll it into rounded balls so that it stayed untangled. She would hook the wool around my two hands and ask me to sit still while she rolled it. Now, there were two things that made me run away from such a task. Firstly, sitting immobile was next to impossible for me. And secondly, it was difficult to be seated close to her for long periods because she smelled of butter. 

Her skin shone like glazed marble and her hair, though grey, was knotted in a thick rope, trailing down her back. But she had a weakness for butter. Dear God! How much she loved this greasy stuff. According to her, it cured everything, from dry elbows, falling hair, itchy scalp and fresh bruises to painful joints and headaches. She would eat large quantities of it and also apply it generously all over her body. If I was near catching distance, she would grab hold of me and rub butter all over my cheeks too. If I wrinkled my nose in distaste, she would give me a head massage as well. With butter!

Other than this bit of eccentricity, she was an ideal grandmother.

The nuns in my convent insisted on giving us a well-rounded curriculum that gave equal importance to life skills like stitching, cooking and knitting. But a wobbly lock in the arts-closet ensured that a higher expert completed my school assignments. It is no wonder that though I know the theory of all the stitches: chain, slip, running, back, buttonhole, blanket, hemming, seed, knit and purl, etcetera, in practice, I cannot execute a single one of them. 

I came across a tiny mitten the other day. Faded blue in colour, it was hand knitted by my grandmother. 

“This is moss rib!” I exclaimed. 

“No, it’s a baby glove,” corrected my husband. 

“The knitting pattern,” I clarified. 

“You made it?” my spouse was shocked. 

“A joint venture,” I confessed. 

“You watched your Biji knit it?” he asked. 

“Well, I held the yarn,” I said. 

“And your breath?” he queried. 

“That too,” I laughed.