Our lives are dotted with
many things. People. Emotions. Colours. Scars. Laughter. Sadness. If there is an even distribution of dots, it
is more aesthetically pleasing. If there
are just a few dots in any one life, they look like blemishes. Things to be pitied and perhaps hidden from
view by the anchal of a saree.
Yes we had dresses that were
polka-dotted. Our mother, or our aunt, or our grandmother would often buy
fabric that would be enough to make two dresses, one for my sister and one for
me. Sometimes they would be identical in style and sometimes they would not.
But they would always be long enough to be hemmed several times, so that with
every growth spurt, we could still get the most wear out of each dress. It was a kindly gesture that we recognized to
be also a creativity fostered by necessity.
Buying clothes was expensive. Silk, satin, cotton prints all in varying
colours and styles copied out of dress patterns from the thirties, forties,
fifties and sixties. Cutting fabric and sewing it on a hand-wound sewing
machine has a very distinct smell for me. It is intoxicating.
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