Today morning I saw my brother-in-law share a video of how men are in fact the ones tortured, since their wives never have anything to wear. And change clothes ten times over before deciding on what to wear.The memory I got reminded of, was when they were in Paris, after their wedding. They spent an extra day there, obviously. With bags and selfies. My sister’s fashion sketches from childhood have often found space in Gulzar and Jagjit. The gratitude for my sister is not dependent on days and such reminders, but what I experience on an everyday basis. //jaise hoton pe karz rakha hai//.
Growing up, my saddest realization is that my sister and I were usually in different cities when she was dressing up for going close to Pari Chowk for college. I only experienced it when we both started working while living at home. And naturally fighting on who gets the bathroom first. Large, horrendous and nasty fights with unmentionable Kashmiri words.//chotti batein, chotti chotti baton ki hain yaadein badi//. The difference was, she wore and changed clothes a couple of times, ironed them for a half hour, because everything somehow was visible to her. My visible needs were just to not miss the cab or the train. Her need was to look good before she missed the cab or the train.
As kids we were both fond of the same things. I wrote the points, she went up to the stage to debate them. I sketched, she painted. I imagined fancy fashion, she carried & drew it to make it real. I made presentations and she shared them with the world. I ate with the dog, she took out her stick to manage them. I read Gulzar for hours, she sang with him. //Woh kal bhi paas paas thi, woh aaj bhi kareeb hai//. Despite styles that are hardly similar, we wore the same things in different colors. Till, she found her own. And I just did what she approved of. //ke hum tak tumhari dua aa rahi thi…nahin toh charagon se lau jaa rahi thi//
For all the nights that we were awake talking about randomness, the huffing and puffing when I made her walk a little too much, the mowgli she brought to bring meaning to our lives, the pinks she likes with oranges, the pings I get each day with 30 messages at one time, the fights on clothes, books and who likes Gulzar more, the cups of tea she distributed in random weddings, the dimples in her smiles, for all that Koul sa’ab had to endure with our vocal fights, the taanpura she can start off at a moment’s notice, for making a Jordan out of the Janardhan in me, gratitude isn’t the word. //tere peeche chala aaya, tera hi main ek saaya, tune mujhko banaya//. It’s just love.
more days: Gratitude Project