There is a green cardigan, buried deep under my bed
Not the green of leaves, or green of eyes
But the green of lollipops meets the green of vintage hardbacks
It is buried with blankets, and old clothes that no longer fit,
and my parents’ marriage photo album.
The cardigan smells of mothballs, and lonely winters, and ecstatic sweat
Motorbike rides and long childhoods, flowers that no longer grow
And growing up
The cardigan is much older than me
Knitted by my grandmother in her forties
Before her eyesight betrayed her
The last she would ever knit.
And when I unfold it, it is like unfolding the space-time warp
A ball of tangled green wool
Knitted across the year, the 90s of Bollywood
Worn across winters, memories, and two first loves
My mother wore it, the first time she met my father
Its a bit scratchy from the inside
Just like their marriage
It’s soft and nostalgic
And wearing it feels like an embrace
From all the people I know
Who lived lives I will never know
Sometimes in summers, I take it out and smell it
Smells never really fade?
they are imprinted in the mind
You just need recollection, a poke
Maybe it still smells of long, secret nights
And rendezvous
And all the gossip exchanged when it was made
Today I am going to meet you
And I will wear the green cardigan
One more story, one more memory, one more life stitched into this mosaic
I hope you know how much it means
Because if you leave
Your touch will be stitched forever
Carefully folded, under one more bed, one more life
To brave the winters and carry wisps of the passing times.
