Stitching a Story

In a year's time, Shikha hadn't been so much at home, and without. But as luck would have it -- just as ice-creams melt unannounced and perfectly made tea goes limp -- in spite of eons of attention and a moment of neglect, her life changed. Long ago when all her friends had shunned her for either being reticent, or their understanding of what over-smart is, she had befriended the noble company of virtual friends, in animated characters. All day long, whenever disengaged with the work at hand -- she was meticulous with the needle -- she would return to the amiable affection of the colour bursts and the accomplishments of levels. The cheer would sound melodious to her, and the skill made her believe she was a champion.

Till last week. It was then that Mother had made her promise that they would go out for a picnic, if she would uninstall one game from her mobile -- her favourite -- shooting stars. Finally, last night, she gave it up. And yet, after having given up, she could not believe she did so. All through the day, Shikha stitched impeccable floral patterns contrasting against a geometrical background. If the head scarf were to find its way, ever, to a Gucci, it would truly sell for many million dollars. Or, sold at a requested price, find itself dangling down the petite neckline of a Hungarian princess. It short, it was a skill rare in one so young. She was all of twenty, a rather smart looking girl, from a rather well-off background. Ousted from furthering her education due to presence of mind that one should display during interviews, she decided to sit at home and take the year off. As she took this decision, Dr Mahapatra diagnosed her fever to have triggered from the psyche. "It just isn't the weather for fever, Mrs Mohanty". This flush had revisited her for the second time, and with a harsher decision to linger, after it had first come to her when she had attained puberty. The prescription was duly met out. It did not say that she should be stopped from playing games. That was never a problem.

Nobody believed when Shikha gave it up. All she wanted in exchange, after a long while, was to inhale the landscape. So long she only re-imagined it on pieces of circled cloth wedded to the steel molds. Rest of her imagination was inhabited by her shooting stars and bubble bursts and the accumulated treasure chest of jewels. All through this morning, all that Shikha could stitch was a disarrayed assembly of her captivated, virtual, landscape. There were ships in diamonds, and pirates inside oranges. The sheen of the sea was outlined in a hem of red, and the trees were blue, one with the sky -- resplendent in lapis lazuli fruits.

However, Mother never took her out for the promised picnic. Shikha returned with a vehement passion towards her only solace, the needle. In my opinion, or anyone else's I am sure, who now stand at this unfortunate death of a precious soul, the piece she last stitched could be held priceless. As for the needle, a shot of air was all it took Shikha to break out of the asylum into her fancy dressed landscape. With plenty of orange juice in which she could swim.

I hope Shikha is hearing me. She would have appreciated this piece. Between us, we shared only mutual admiration, never competition. Goes without saying, I placed the injection at the right place, for the right time. 

This piece is priceless too. Would you disagree?

-- Niyati Gautam,

The Teresa Memorial Mental Asylum,

May Madness. 2016.