Sweater

MY MOTHER TOLD ME that she had knitted this sweater the same year that Abbi, my father, breathed his last in the hospital, owing to the doctors’ negligence. For the rest of her life, Mother insisted that my father would not have died if doctors had not injected him with the wrong medicine.

I don’t mean to talk about them, though; this story is about a sweater.

Father died in the month of Poh, in late December or early January. Before that he had been bedridden for a couple of months. The poor man was not lucky enough to make it to winter, let alone enjoy wearing his new sweater. Mother had knitted it that year with great fondness. We were small at the time, but we all remember that each time Mother recalled our father over the years, she would add: “I knitted that sweater with so much affection, but your father didn’t have the chance to use it. He wore it only once when we went to the bazaar on a tonga. We ate fresh coconut and bought flannel cloth for you all.”

After Father passed away, some of his clothes were given away, and some were saved for us children for when we would be ready for them. The sweater was taken by our youngest paternal uncle, who was a student then, and who also had been close to my father. There used to be very little clutter in the house. Whatever things there were, we all knew their history; now my hair is turning grey, but I can still remember it all. After Father passed away, Mother brought some household items that had been stored in the house of our other uncle since Partition: a big brass praat, for holding dough, the headboard, sidebars, and posters of a good-sized bed, a large brass platter, and two huge and very old chairs.

Mother remembered the story of each and every thing. “This brass praat was bought by your Mama, my brother, from Mr. Dhariwal,” she told us. “This big bed frame was made under the watchful eyes of your grandfather, who supervised the carpenter personally while sitting in the courtyard. The carpenter was paid for his labour with some sugar and wheat.” We brought the bed into the house, but we had no space for it. There was only one room for all of us. Later, the bed was assembled and then pushed and prodded into the room. Mother sometimes saved old trunks and things under it. We three brothers slept on that bed for many years. Within just a few months, the cotton webbing stretched across the wooden frame loosened and began to fall apart. Often we would go to sleep on the bed at night only to wake up on the floor in the morning.

But this story is about the sweater. Mother remembered it, too, for many years.

Mother was in the habit of relating her dreams each and every morning. She would tell me: “I saw your Abbi in my dream last night. He was wearing white clothes, and he was looking at me with a smile. He was wearing that sweater.”

My youngest uncle became a big official after completing his studies, and once he got married, we didn’t see him much. But he would come to visit us once or twice a year, and each time before leaving, he would caress our hair, sigh heavily, and hand something to Mother. For many years, our uncle’s one or two visits were all we had to look forward to. When I passed the tenth-grade exams with high marks, our uncle came to meet us, and he suggested that I go on for higher studies. For many years, the other uncles had been saying that we should be sent to work. When leaving, my aunt gave us some used clothes, and among them was Mother’s knitted sweater. When I wore the sweater that day, Mother went quietly into the other room. We knew this habit of hers.

After my graduation, a different kind of bird began to fly in me. I didn’t know much about it except that its flight was to the west. With a friend I headed towards Afghanistan, then through Turkey, Bulgaria, and Belgrade, and finally we reached Italy by train. I became like a tree there, a tree without a sparrow in its branches, without earth to settle into. No one offers a thing when you arrive in such a place. How can one earn a living, with nothing to begin with? And then there is the problem of finding work at all. When we ran out of money, we had to live on the street. Then the winter hit. Those who had not experienced the winter over there had no idea. The underground tunnels where the Metro trains run, they became our last resort, the only place left that could keep us warm. There we found many who were exiles in their own country: the old men, drunken women, the boys who had fled from work or were without work—they could be found among the dark boys from our poor countries.

And then the police would come and force us to leave, and we would stand out on the road in the piercing cold night. I was wearing the same sweater then. That, two more, and then a fat jacket over them. But no way, this was not the winter of our country. This winter was foreign, and the slaying air was something we could not know. One morning, after staying awake all night at the station, I was freshening up at a public toilet. We could have a free meal at a church if we got there in time. If late, we would have to starve for the day. So I was in a hurry and left my sweater hanging in the toilet. After I ate, I realized it was missing and ran back for it. The sweater was still hanging there, waiting for me, two hours later.

When I did find work, I was overwhelmed by strange memories of my country. One dream in particular came to me many times, like a painted still life: An empty room with a table and some chairs, some crockery, and half-eaten food on the table. Nobody sat in the chairs. It was as if someone had just gotten up from there a moment before and left it all behind. In the dream, I try to reach inside but cannot. I am hungry, and I want to eat my fill. But I cannot. I had not realized that I would never be able to live to my satisfaction without being with my own people.

Memories would descend on me, and my eyes would be soaked in tears. I would remember the air on Lahore’s Mall Road, and the city’s old trees. The empty crate for bottles at Fajjy’s Coffee House, which we used to sit on when we went to drink tea. The water standing in the deserted lanes of Krishan Nagar, where I grew up, in the evenings after the rains, with snakes moving through the water. The weak streetlights, and the dim lights filtering out of silent homes.

After a year and a half, I came back to my country like a man without spirit, shivering with cold. I was wearing the sweater again. Mother said: “You have come back the same person as when you went away.” After a long and hard struggle, I was able to complete my education, and begin my career. With time, more was added to it.

Some time back, one of Mother’s relatives came to visit her. She used to live in another city, but her husband had just retired. When she went away, mother told me that she had come to see me, looking for a job for her eldest son. They were living well until her husband retired, but it seemed that they had nothing to live on since. It was difficult for them even to keep a roof over their heads. She kept talking to Mother in a low voice, and I saw that her eyes were sad.

When the woman was leaving, Mother gave her some old clothes and that sweater was among them. By now, it was worn out. It was hard to say if it could even be worn. The wool was full of snags, and the shoulders were all stretched out. It had a strange and clumsy appearance. I said: “Mother, a thing should be in good shape to be given away. How can anyone wear that?” But the woman quickly picked it up and dropped it back with the other clothes, saying: “It can be worn under a shirt. Besides, handmade sweaters have a warmth of their own.”