The Rolling Stone

“Well, what’s wrong with learning how to knit?”

“We live in Singapore!” my sister, Neena said, and shrugged. As though its so obvious.

“So?” She was going to have to explain it better. 

“Come on. We don’t have a single day in the entire year when the weather is cooler than 80 degrees? Nobody ever wears any warm clothes here.” I am not sure why I hadn’t thought of that.

I looked at the knitting needles on my lap—the peach color sweater of a newborn was halfway done. Random strangers in the local train have already congratulated me on my impending motherhood. I’d like to believe they saw the baby sweater and not the biryani-induced ‘baby bump.’ I always say “Thanks,” because i can’t possibly say, “Sorry, I am not pregnant, just a little chubby.” That would be embarrassing to them and mortifying to me. If I admit I am pregnant, I save them the embarrassment and they even give me their seat. It’s a win-win.

“Well, I could gift sweaters and scarves to our friends and family in India or in the US.” I said a bit defensively.

She raised her eyebrows. “What made you think of knitting as a hobby?”

“Well, our grandmother knew how to knit. And all our aunts. I thought it was a dying tradition. And if I learnt, I could do my part to take it forward.”

“I thought you wanted to carry forward our family’s tradition of making pickles and jams forward? Wasn’t that what you were doing two months ago? You bought so many mason jars!” She raised her eyebrows.

“Oh, I didn’t find the best quality mangoes this year. Maybe I will try next year.” The truth is I tried salting and drying out two batches of raw mango, but they just got moldy. When I went to get the third batch of mangoes, the raw mango season was almost over.

“But mango is not the only fruit!,” Neena retorted.

“I am going out for a walk.” I didn’t want to argue with her. She shook her head. Of course my sister won’t get it. Her mind doesn’t work like mine at all. Even her thoughts must be in neat little color-coordinated compartments— ’Sister,’ ‘Mother,’ ‘Work,’ ‘Yoga,’ ‘Men.’ But my mind is like the psychedelic lights inside a discotheque, that blink and change color ever so often.

  “I am Mary Kondo-ing our loft. Before you go, can you please take a look? ”

I sighed. Ever since the Mary Kondo mania hit the world, my sister has been on an organizing spree. We are so different--I would bet my knitting needles that my parents adopted her. She is one of those people who knows exactly what she wants. She has been doing yoga for eleven years. She even went on to get her teachers’ training and opened a yoga studio last year. She says she likes to go deep—whether it is into a yoga pose, she’s into boys that are deep (I don’t know if she means it literally), and with life in general.

I guess the implication is that I am shallow.

I follow her to the bedroom whose loft she has ransacked all morning. Even her ‘mess’ looks more organized than my ‘organized.’ There are piles of things neatly laid out on the floor.

“That” she said in a steel-rimmed voice, pointing to the biggest pile. I walked up to the pile. The first thing that caught my eye made me take a sharp breath. It was a big transparent plastic bag with a lump of cotton toy stuffing in it, like a cloud in packaging. I picked up the packet. It was from the time I had become obsessed with the idea of making ‘felt toys.’

That is how my hobbies usually start—I see something that grabs my attention (usually on Instagram or Pinterest) and I promise myself that “this time I am going to really get into it.” I imagined myself gifting small felt keychains on birthdays, and then graduating to selling on Etsy. I even imagined the name of my Etsy Store—'Heartfelt.’ Cute, right? I bought myself a felting needle and other supplies (including a hand sewing machine), and borrowed books from the library on the subject.

I ended up making a yellow felt bookmark with a red lace border that I hand-stitched. I didn’t have fabric-cutting scissors, so the edges were crooked. It looked nothing like the bookmark I was trying to copy on Pinterest. I realized felting requires a number of tertiary skills which I would have to first learn—like cutting fabric, sewing in a machine, toy-stuffing and embroidery. I never gifted that bookmark to anyone. Last I remember, the bookmark is languishing at the back of my drawer in the study table. I also lost interest in felting. Forever.

But I hang on to the supplies, in some vapid hope that those desires rise from the dead again. I quietly pick up the packet of toy stuffing and transfer it to the ‘Things to Dispose’ pile. I saw Neena from the corner of my eye—she was leaning on the door, following me closely, her arms folded across her chest, lips pursed. I could feel the blood slowly crawling up my ears. Thankfully, she turned and walked towards the kitchen.

Next to the toy-stuffing was a pink bunny-rabbit sock puppet. I held it up.The sock-puppet, with his floppy red felt ears, googly eyes, and his red tongue seemed to be mocking at me. I thought back to two years ago—about my storytelling gigs at the local library, the moms telling me that I had a real gift for storytelling, my solemn decision to create my own puppet show in the middle of the night while watching Netflix, my run to the shop to buy pink socks, watching YouTube vidoes on how to make bunnies, making the bunny over three hours, and then beginning to practice my gig. Until this point, I was like a hummingbird on fast forward.

But after practicing for a few days, it slowly dawned on me that while I may be good at telling stories to a bunch of four year olds, I was no good at imitating voices. I abandoned my sock puppet. A few weeks later, I gave up storytelling as well.Forever.

A strange feeling curled up in my chest—it was anxiety, I think. This uncomfortable thought that I always was trying to run away from–that somehow, I am lacking, that something is missing in me that makes me a hobby-hopper, a quitter.

I am twenty-nine and I still haven’t settled into a hobby—I still didn’t know what is my passion and I wasn’t getting more skilled at anything. I felt this clawing frustration that I should just resign myself to a life of unfocused mediocrity. 

I scan the pile.

The evidence is right there—of the times I glommed into tarot card reading, pilates, terrarium-making and food photography. And I was currently considering ceramics, twilling and charcoal sketching. Mom’s words ring in my ears, “You waste so much money. Why can’t you be like Neena?” Suddenly, I feel a simmering rage, anger at myself. I take the shiny deck of tarot cards, the terrarium pot and half a packet of colorful stones, the background props I spent three Sundays making for food-photography and I threw them all into the ‘Dispose’ pile.

Just then, Neena walked into the room with a big black trash bag, saw me dumping everything and said, “Someone is on fire today.”

“Please throw everything away” I said as I walked out of the room. I really needed to get far away from that pile. I went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face. The ice cold water shook me out of the self-hating whirlpool I was getting sucked into. I took a couple of deep breaths. Then I wiped my face.

 I went to my room and lay down on the bed. I looked at my knitting curled up near my pillow. I thought of the numerous times I opened and reopened my knitting in the past few days. I held up the half-made newborn sweater. I could still see one hole where there shouldn’t be one. But I didn’t have it in me to again undo it and start all over again.

 I picked up my phone and started scrolling on Pinterest. I found something that immediately caught my attention—‘How to Overcome Emotional Blocks Using Flower Therapy.’ Clearly, I had some emotional block that made me such a hobby-hopper. Soon I had multiple windows on my phone open on “The Power of Essences,” “Agrimony,” Healing Benefits of Rose” “The Ultimate Guide to Hydrosols.”

I had never even heard of flower therapy—how fascinating.…perhaps, I could look up some online courses…. I could start with helping some friends. I sat up on my bed to research some more. I shoved my knitting aside…