The Joy of Knitting

The Joy of Knitting

By Nimi Kurian

Aalia had recently discovered the joys of knitting. Now she could not stop. She knitted all the time – while watching television, eating, sometimes even in bed. When invited to coffee mornings or parties, she brought along her knitting. It was getting tiresome to see her balance her needles and wine glass while extolling the virtues of her recently acquired hobby.

“Aalia has become quite the bore hasn’t she?” asked Shirley, Aalia’s neighbour. She bore the brunt of the monologues. Shirley and Munira were at the grocery store.

“Oh yes,” said Munira. “But unlike you, I don’t need to tolerate any of it…”

“What about Saturday’s party at your place then?”

“Oh! I’m not inviting her. Salim has categorically stated that she cannot be…” finished Munira lamely when she saw Shirley’s expression of shock.

“I can understand that. But birthday and all that…” said Shirley, after a pause. “Anyway, my husband too dreads her visits and of course her evangelizing about knitting.”

The two women laughed as they picked up stuff from the shelf and put them into the shopping basket. Deepa in the next aisle stifled a giggle as she overheard the two women. Not hearing any more talk, she walked up to join them.

“I couldn’t help overhearing what you were talking about,” she said, as she giggled self-consciously. “I too have been at the receiving end of her lectures.”

“You, me, her, and everyone in between…” said Munira, unkindly.

They paid their bills and walked out of the shop talking about Saturday’s party.

They had just reached the corner when they saw Aalia, knitting ferociously as she held Mr. Patel with her gaze. As the three women neared, they could hear Aalia’s excited chatter.

“…it’s fun and creative. It also has health benefits, you know.” Aalia’s shrill excited chatter reached them. They looked pityingly at Mr. Patel, who wore a resolute expression on his face as he soldiered on. Aalia was oblivious to everything around her. Her needles clicked and clacked as quickly as her tongue could form words.

“Hello Mr. Patel, Aalia,” said the three women.

Mr. Patel hesitated, seemed to stop, and then said, “Ah yes, Good morning ladies. I was wond…”

“Ah yes, hello hello,” said Aalia, distractedly, “and it not only reduces stress and but it also keeps Alzheimer’s at bay. Would you believe it? This hobby which has kept women occupied for so many centuries…”

“Oh well never mind,” said Mr. Patel with a shrug and walked along with Aalia.

“It is the rhythm and repetition that helps you relax. It has been scientifically proved that when you keep repeating something it triggers a release of serotonin, which is key to keeping one calm and well.”

The three women could not help but laugh.

However, Aalia’s obsession with her hobby did not confine itself with just talking about it. She knitted jerseys and sweaters, scarves and mufflers, baby blankets, and neck warmers for everyone in town. Any birthday or wedding anniversary saw Aalia with her gift. Everyone dreaded these gifts as much as her talk about knitting. Not only were the colours awful, but the sweaters and jerseys were also ill-fitting.

Much later, it was discovered that Aalia managed to get single balls of wool and odd colours, that would otherwise remain unsold, at half price.

Coonoor was a small town, nestled in the western ghats of the Nilgiris mountains in south India. There were but a total of 10000 residents here and invariably everyone knew everyone else. Being a small town, every incident or happening in town or any one’s home was news around the town the next minute. So, it was no secret that Salim was to celebrate his 60^th birthday on Saturday.

Aalia had started knitting a sweater, especially for the occasion. On Thursday, she went through her mail and her messages on her phone to check if she had missed the invite. She asked her husband, Arvind, if he had seen the invitation. He grunted in reply.

Puzzled, but not put out, Aalia continued to knit. The rhythmic clickety-clack of her needles was driving Arvind insane. He clenched his teeth and growled. And then, before he could fly off his handle he ran out of the house.

Saturday dawned and there was still no invitation. But Aalia was resolute. She had finished her gift and she was going to give it to Salim.

“Come home early today,” said Aalia to Arvind as she waved a needle in goodbye and continued with her knitting.

“Why?”

“Today is Salim’s party.”

“But we have not been invited.”

“Of course, we have…we’ve just misplaced the invite. Anyway, don’t worry about it. I will call Munira and find out.”

Arvind nodded and drove off. Aalia was conjuring up a difficult pattern for her latest creation and soon got so engrossed in it that she forgot to call Munira. She added bits of blue and yellow to orange and red, lime green and pink. She looked at the emerging design and was happy.

“It’s coming out better than I thought,” she said to herself.

She was so caught up with the colour and the design that she forgot to have lunch and it was almost tea time when she was forced out of her dreamlike state on hearing the crunch of car tyres on the gravel. She looked up, dazed.

“You’re home early,” she said, as her husband stepped in.

“If you remember, you asked me to get back early…” replied Arvind, puzzled.

“Oh did I? Well, in that case, let me get you some tea…”

Aravind followed Aalia into the kitchen. “So what time are we expected?”

“Where?”

Arvind raised an eyebrow in exasperation. “To the party…”

It was then that Aalia remembered that she had forgotten to call Munira. But, not wanting to tell Arvind she had forgotten, she hummed and hawed and muttered, “Around 7, as usual.”

It was almost 7.30 p.m. when Arvind and Aalia arrived at Munira’s place. Their entrance was met with shocked silence. Munira, the perfect host, was the first to recover.

“Oh come in! Come in!” she gushed.

Aalia followed Arvind into the drawing-room. She was armed with her knitting needles, and the incomplete woollen creation in one hand and in the other clutched a badly wrapped shapeless parcel.

She marched up to Salim and gave him his gift.

“I spent a lot of time thinking up this pattern you know. And, the colours I have chosen are specially for you.”

Aalia knew that not many people knew how to knit…at least among her circle of friends. So she was proud of being able to show off her skill, almost like pulling off a magic trick. As she gave the gift she smiled coyly and looked around ready to accept the praise and appreciation. Instead, she was met by a stunned silence and it seemed like everyone was holding their breath.

As she scanned the room, her eye fell on James. He stood in the corner and watched the proceedings with barely concealed amusement. A sudden dislike flared up in Aalia’s eyes, as she remembered the numerous times he had looked at her with disdain.

“Open it Salim! Open it!” shouted James, almost laughing.

Salim shot him daggers, willing him to cut it out. But soon Aalia too took up the chorus, saying, “Open it Salim.”

Reluctantly, Salim opened the gift. He blanched when he saw it was a sweater in baby pink, with two large, bright orange pineapples in the centre. There was an audible gasp from everyone in the room. The silence was broken by loud laughter from James burst out laughing. James was oblivious to the look of hurt on Aalia’s face. He laughed tears flowing out of his eyes. Then a faint giggle broke out, a titter, some suppressed laughter until finally, the whole room was laughing. Salim stood there in the centre of the room holding the ghastly masterpiece to his chest, looking at first, embarrassed and then sheepish until he too joined in the laughter.

Aalia paled. She tried to say something but words failed her and she backed out of the room. When she reached the door she bolted. James quickly realized what he had done. He followed her out. But she was not in the hallway. She had stepped out. He opened the front door and ran out.

The guests gathered at the drawing-room window and peered into the dark night. They thought they saw him running down the driveway.

Half an hour later, Aalia breezed in. for the first time in many weeks she had not knitting needle or sweater in her hand. She smiled at everyone.

“Munira, the peas in your garden have come up so well…” she said. Met with a continued silence she said, “I could do with a drink,” she said. It was the old Aalia – the one before the knitting obsession had taken over. The rest of the evening passed by joyfully. Aalia was the life of the party. It was only when everyone was leaving that they realized that James had not returned.

A search revealed James lying motionless in the driveway. They found no perceptible wounds on him. Just a small puncture mark in his chest.

Aalia was the first to run back to the house and call the police.