The Cardigan
Ledo, the last railway station fifty miles from Dibrugarh in north-eastern India, existed in a time warp. The British constructed the station in 1890 to transport coal from the collieries there. Later, it became the starting point of the Stilwell Road, built by the Allied Forces during World War II. The road was a military supply route through Burma to Kunming in South China. Now, an intercity train connected Ledo with Dibrugarh, the nearest major station where the passengers boarded trains for major cities in India. The small place in its bosom held several tales that lay buried under the railway tracks. The writers who ventured that far wrote about more glamorous stories about the British soldiers and their victory against the Japanese on the battlefield. The poor workers who died constructing the railway line didn't find a footnote.
Saikia, the young station master, awaited a transfer to a bigger city. An eerie silence enveloped the place during the day, and it haunted at night. The town seemed in no mood to leave the colonial ambiance. The station amenities were basic and barely tolerable. The railway authorities saw no wisdom in wasting money on improving the facilities there. Saikia read thriller novels, played cricket with his staff, and took a nap after flagging the lone train. A call from the Coalmine Manager disturbed his routine that day. But he was keen to meet Kamala, the manager’s mother. She evoked the image of his beloved mother, whom he missed every waking hour.
He asked his staff to clean the waiting room and place a decanter of fresh water in it. He asked the tea seller to bring hot fritters and tea with less sugar to the waiting room when he gave him the signal. Around noon, an ambassador car wheeled into the station. He opened the door and walked the lady to the waiting room. Kamala, unused to such niceties at bigger stations, thanked him. The accompanying guard brought her luggage into the room and waited outside. She freshened up and sat in the wicker chair. After a while, the tea seller brought hot fritters and simmering tea. Her eyes lit. Between sips, Saikia asked about her stay in that godforsaken place. She loved the beautiful and quiet countryside of Assam. It was an education for her to watch how the workers made tea from leaves in the factory. But she missed the hustle and bustle of her hometown.
Meanwhile, the train wheeled in on the platform. The guard lifted her luggage. Saikia accompanied her to the compartment. He ensured she was comfortable in her seat and said, “Sorry, Auntie. I couldn’t offer you lunch. The railway food is terrible here.”
“Say softly,” she cautioned. “If your seniors heard this, they will make your life hell.”
“It’s a small station. I wish I could pack dinner for you, but I’m a horrible cook.” Saikia gave her a sheepish grin.
“Son, you have a big heart. Few men have that today. Don’t bother about dinner. The maid has packed something for me. Your mother is a noble woman who has instilled good values in you. Give my love to her,” she said, giving him a warm handshake. They said goodbye to each other and parted. The train left the station.
Kamala fell into deep thought. Apart from trivial disagreements, she had a good time with her son and daughter-in-law, who had no interest in cooking. It pained her that the maid cooked meals for her son. She wanted to stay with her son for more time and cook his favourite dishes, but that was not possible. Her daughter-in-law would never allow that, and she couldn't leave her husband alone for so long. It was a dilemma that every mother faced and cried in her lonely hours. No one could understand her helplessness. The train stopped at Dibrugarh.
She boarded the connecting train. When she awoke the next day, Sudha, a woman in her mid-forties, on the opposite seat, greeted her with a smile. Kamala sighed with relief. Most men lacked the manners to behave with their co-passengers. Their attitude ranged from nonchalant to pomposity. Often, their gazes caused discomfort to the women. The two women, after a brief introduction, struck a chord immediately. They chatted about their homes, families, and dreams. In between, they retouched their lipstick, applied moisturizer, and combed their hair. Suddenly, the train stopped at the station.
Sudha got down and fetched two teas. She handed a cup to Kamala. “Ma’am, this is for you.”
“Thank you, my dear.” Kamala smiled. “You can call me Auntie.”
Then, they had tea in silence. After a peep outside the window, Kamala turned to Sudha and asked, “Why did you leave your well-paying job?”
“I wish I could continue.” Sudha sighed. “I faced a dilemma whether to save my job or my marriage. I sacrificed my self-respect. What could the fourth girl of a single mother do? My father abandoned us when we were young. He left my mother for a younger woman. We never met him after that. I often wonder what forces a man to leave a loving wife without any reason. I can't share my mother's sufferings, but I can surely not increase them. I'm happy that my sisters are happy in their married lives.”
“God created us to sacrifice and suffer. It’s in our destiny. I think you made the right decision.” Kamala held Sudha’s hands. “Some years ago, I dreamed of achieving something. I worked in a company for a few years, but left my job when I got pregnant. After my son was born, I devoted all my energy and time to him. Later, I had two daughters. Raising three children was tough and took a toll on my health. My children are married and doing well. My husband and I lead a happy life, reading books and visiting new places.”
Thereafter, a long silence ensued. The rattle of wheels and an occasional whistle of the engine tore the night's silence. With misty eyes, both women reflected on the lost opportunities and wondered if they had done something different that would have made their lives better and more meaningful. They felt guilty for broaching a sensitive subject, wiped their eyes, and exchanged smiles. After a brief while, they had lunch.
Sudha stretched her limbs, snapped her fingers, opened the bag, and took out a pair of knitting needles and wool. Then she began knitting. Before leaving home, Sudha had promised to knit her a cardigan. Though she had been knitting it for a month, she could not finish it. She planned to do that on the train and surprise her mother on her birthday, two days later.
Out of the corner of her eye, Kamala glanced at Sudha. As the train picked up speed, so did Sudha’s knitting, which she’d learned from her grandmother. It acted as a stress buster. Suddenly, a waiter showed up and asked them for tea. They said yes in unison. Kamala kept the book aside. Sudha’s fast-moving fingers mesmerized her. She said, smiling, “You know how to knit.”
“Yeah,” Sudha replied, placing needles on the seat and snapping her fingers.
“I find it strange. The young girls are not interested in it.”
“You’re right," Sudha said. “Most friends of mine hate it. The machine-made sweaters, cardigans, pullovers, and scarves have flooded the market. I guess I’m reviving a dying art. My grandma was a great knitter and never repeated a design. She knitted something for everyone in the family every winter. But I learnt only a dozen designs from her.”
“I guess you’re knitting it for your husband. It's so exquisite.”
“It’s for my mom. She has her birthday next Friday. My husband prefers branded ones.” Sudha smiled.
“Your mother's so lucky." Kamala sighed. “Forgive me if I may sound envious. The women in my family know no knitting. They are too lazy, I guess. I am to blame for that. My mother tried to teach me, but I showed no interest. I hate needles. My mother knitted cardigans and sweaters for us before she passed. My siblings have taken all my woollens. I'm left with a faded cardigan that Amma specially made for me.”
Sudha sat opposite a woman who was sentimental about hand-knit cardigans, but she had just a worn-out piece. Sudha had knitted her mother a dozen sweaters, cardigans, and pullovers, but she had neither expressed a sentiment like that nor had the glint of joy in her eyes. She never acknowledged that Sudha had put her heart and soul into every piece. Her fingers became sore, and her forearms ached when she finished a sweater or a cardigan.
The two women chatted, and when they got tired, Kamala switched to reading and Sudha to knitting. In between, they exchanged admiring glances and loving smiles. Before the penultimate station arrived, Sudha finished the cardigan. She fetched hot tea from the station, and both had it quietly. Half an hour later, Kamala was to alight at Patna. After tea, she packed her luggage and waited. She wanted her journey to last longer so he could spend more time with Kamala. The faint lights of the villages rushed past her. Her hometown was nearing fast.
“Excuse me,” Sudha said.
“Yes.” Kamala turned back.
“I have a gift for you. I hope you won’t refuse it.” Sudha had a neatly wrapped packet in her hand.
“I did nothing to deserve this,” Kamala said.
“It’s a token of remembrance for the wonderful time I had with you,” Sudha said with a pleasing smile.
For several seconds, Kamala was too overwhelmed to say anything. She thanked her and asked with a childlike sparkle in her eyes, “What’s in this?”
“Open and see for yourself,” Sudha shot back.
Kamala opened the packet. A Cardigan shocked her. It was the same one Sudha was
knitting on the train. The guilt weighed her down. The cardigan was for her mother. How could she accept that? She argued in her mind and spoke politely, “Sudha, this is the best gift of my life, but I can’t accept it. Your mother is its rightful owner.”
“Believe me. You deserve more than my mom,” Sudha insisted. “I’ll knit her another one.”
“Thank you so much. I shall treasure it all my life.” Kamala wiped her misty eyes. "It's the best gift of my life."
“It’s not for safekeeping. Wear it sometimes. It will make me happy.” Sudha laughed.
Kamala joined her. A few minutes later, the train halted. They hugged and said goodbye. Outside, the weather was chilly. Kamala instinctively put on the cardigan. Half an hour later, she was home with her daughters. They were delighted to see her. After freshening up, she sat at the dining table as her oldest daughter made tea for all.
When the daughter put cups on the table, Kamala’s cardigan caught her eye. She moved closer and touched it. “Great Cardigan! Where did you get it? Ma, who gifted it?”
“Sudha,” the mother said between sips.
“Who is she?” the daughter enquired, but couldn’t take her eyes off it. She felt it between her fingers and couldn't take her eyes off. “Ma, this design is unique, exquisite; the knitter makes for someone special.”
“How can you say that?” Kamala asked. Her heart filled with pride, and her eyes with gratitude. A stranger had made her feel so special that no one in the family could ever do.
“I run a boutique, and don’t forget I’m a designer too.”
“But you never knit a cardigan.”
“So what?” the daughter said. “A woman can never miss the sentiment behind making a garment.”
“Alright, I believe you,” Kamala said, hiding her smile. “It was a birthday gift for her
mother.”
“And she gave it to you,” the daughter gave her an incredulous look.
“Indeed, she did.”
“Strange!”
“But true...”
Envy and guilt filled the daughter's heart. Her mother had done so many things to see a smile on their faces, and never asked anything in return. It struck her that it was time she did something special to bring joy to her mother's face, like that cardigan had.
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