Chapter 2:
Threads That Hold
Mehar's POV
After I finish cleaning, I head to the hand pump. It stands just beside the washroom tucked under the stairs—familiar, stubborn, a little crooked now. I grip its cold metal handle and begin to press. It groans, as if woken too early, but then—water rushes out in a quick burst, splashing into our old peetal bucket. Its rim is dented, its belly bruised from years of use, but it still holds strong.
I carry the filled bucket inside, the weight of it pressing against my wrist. The bricks beneath my feet are cold and a little uneven. I crouch beside it and lean forward. Using my cupped hands, I splash water onto my face. It stings. I let it. I blink hard, as though the sting is just from the chill—not from the memories that are rising like steam.
Mama used to sit on the kitchen floor, near the edge of the chulha, her stone slab placed steady against the wall. There, she would grind neem leaves and haldi until the paste turned thick and green-gold. With a small steel katori and her soft fingers, she’d mix in rosewater, murmuring something under her breath—not prayers, not recipes—just the quiet rhythm of someone who knew what care looked like. Then she’d touch my cheeks, my forehead, my nose—never rushing, always knowing exactly where to press.
“This is what makes you beautiful,” she’d say. “Not lipstick, not powder—this. Things your nani used. Things that last.”
Once I’ve dried my face with the edge of my dupatta, I go to the small wooden almirah and pull out the orange kurti Mama had stitched for me on her old black sewing machine.
That machine—it lived in the corner by the curtain of the kitchen, half hidden but never silent. Its wheel would turn with a high metallic whirr, then thuk-thuk-thuk as the needle moved. That sound was part of our house’s heartbeat. She’d pedal it rhythmically, stopping only to pull the fabric taut or gently tug a thread. Sometimes she’d talk to the fabric like it was me, saying, “Bas thoda aur—just a little more, meri gudiya deserves the best.”
If she saw a girl in the village wear something stylish—bell sleeves, zari lining, a rounded hem—she’d come home and try to stitch the same before dinner. “You won’t look less than anyone,” she’d whisper, her hands folding the finished kurti with pride. Then, as I tried it on, she would adjust my dupatta and mutter, “Stay away from nazar,” tying a little black thread near my arm—just in case.
She meant the evil eye, the way people sometimes look at beauty like it’s something they’re owed. She never took chances when it came to me.
If I ever returned from school looking tired, cheeks flushed, my body running a little warm—she wouldn’t ask much. She’d just bring her palm to my forehead and sigh, “You caught someone’s nazar again—just look at you, my tall, beautiful girl.”
She’d press her lips to my head like that would undo it.
The kurti fits differently these days. It’s looser now, especially around the arms. It didn’t used to be. I haven’t really looked at my body in a while. I suppose grief reshapes you in places you don’t expect. Not loud or sudden—just quietly, like a thread pulled tighter.
I reach for the matching dupatta—stitched from leftover fabric. As I wrap it around myself, I imagine her hands doing it instead of mine. I pause, letting it rest on my shoulder for a few more seconds than necessary. Sometimes memories feel heavier than fabric.
I kneel by the bed and pull out the small wooden stool Baba made years ago. It creaks softly, like it knows who’s sitting. The legs are uneven now—one side rubbed smooth from where I always rest my heel. Baba made many things for other people at the wood mill. But the best things—the cot, the almirah, this stool—he made for us. His words were few, but his hands always said enough.
I remember one afternoon—golden and warm—when he brought home a small pink bicycle with tassels that had started to fray. “Second-hand,” he said, but his eyes watched me like I was riding a flying chariot. He held the seat as I pedaled shaky circles in the courtyard just outside our rooms. “Learn it properly,” he said, “so you never need to wait for anyone—not even a bus, not even fate.”
When I fell, he didn’t rush. He waited, arms open, eyes steady, letting me choose whether to cry or to try again. I chose to try.
I settle in front of the mirror on the almirah door. It’s old and spotted along the edges, the kind of glass that only shows parts of your reflection—but I’ve never needed more. I begin combing my hair. It’s longer than I remembered, thick waves falling to my back. The teeth of the comb tug gently. No one pauses to undo the knots now.
Mama used to sit behind me each morning, her palms warming mustard oil over the chulha. She’d rub it between her fingers before parting my hair. “This oil from Bhagat Singh’s shop,” she’d say, “will keep your hair strong and your thoughts steady. Don’t let the wind take you away too easily.” I never questioned her. I just sat, still, trusting her hands to know what they were doing.
That bottle of mustard oil still sits under the bed. I haven’t opened it since. Its smell would bring her back too quickly, too much.
I braid my hair slowly, pulling the strands tight. Each twist feels like a way of holding myself together. I leave two little tendrils loose by my cheeks. Mama would always notice, always scold me gently. “Trying to look older, are you?” she’d say, pretending to frown even as she smiled. I do it still—not because I want to look older, but because some parts of that girl still want to be seen.
I glance at myself in the mirror—really look.
My skin carries the quiet tone of old wheat, touched by sun and air, never shielded. There’s a certain softness along the edges of my face, like faded silk—features shaped more by emotion than time. My cheekbones are high and curved just like Mama’s, and when I tilt my chin, I see Baba in the shape of it—firm, calm, like something carved gently by hand. My eyes are deep brown, the kind of brown that always looks like it’s been holding back something—over-steeped chai, secrets not spoken, sleep not had. Beneath them, shadows rest quietly, not angry, not loud—just there.
But when I smile, even slightly, something stirs. Two dimples appear on either side of my face—the same ones Mama used to kiss before sending me off to school. “They make you look like mischief lives in your cheeks,” she’d say.
Baba never said much. But sometimes, when he saw them, a quiet smile would rise to his lips and stay there, like he’d remembered something just for himself.
I stand up slowly. My legs stretch longer than I remember. Baba used to say I’d outgrow every cot in the house. I think I already have. I walk taller now—but inside, I’m still that girl sitting by her mother’s sewing machine, watching stitches become strength.
I reach for my old black slippers. The threads have started to fray. I slip them on and pick up my cloth-wrapped bag—stitched from one of Mama’s old dupattas. Inside are just the things that feel like mine:
• A wooden spinning top—Baba carved it for me when I was five. It doesn’t spin straight anymore, but I keep it.
• A pink notebook with curled corners. Baba brought it home one night like it was treasure. “For your dreams,” he said, before writing my name on the first page with his slow, careful hand. That page is still untouched. I don’t need to write over it. It’s already enough.
• And in the corner of the bag, wrapped in old newspaper, is a piece of murmura chikki—jaggery and puffed rice. Mama used to buy it from Bhagat Singh’s shop when she had nothing left to give but still wanted to surprise me. Some days, I eat it. Some days, it just stays with me.
I walk to the main door of our home. The wooden frame is worn smooth from years of hands pushing it open. The deep brown paint is chipped now, faded by sun and rain. I run my fingers along it slowly, tracing the grooves. Every one of them holds a memory.
Mama, fixing my dupatta.
Baba, brushing back a stray hair.
Both of them behind me—always behind me.
I open the door—not to leave them behind.
