The Missing Bobbin

My father thought that I chose to name this space dedicated to my grandparents’ lives ‘the lost bobbin’ because the bobbin is similar to an anchor. In a sewing machine, the bobbin is the small spool-like object around which thread is spun. For the machine to function, the bobbin is a crucial supplier of that thread. My Nani played a similar role in our family. She was the anchor that grounded us; a gravitational force that we all felt regardless of where we physically were. She was our bobbin, holding close to her the thread of our lives. In her absence, everyone’s living, but feeling a little lost, a little scattered. It seems that we have all somehow been rendered weightless.

I want to take credit for having thought of this elaborate metaphor, but the reason ‘the lost bobbin’ came to my mind was much more basic.

Ever since I can remember, Nani was a skilled seamstress. As a young girl, she would often stitch her own clothes, cutting out pictures of designs from magazine pages. Highly industrious by nature, she always had some kind of project up her sleeve. You’d see her bent over a piece of cloth, mending a sleeve or stitching a button. She would cover rips and tears with small, colourful embroidered flowers. She’d watch her favourite tv serials and while her eyes were glued to the television, her hands would take on a life of their own, efficiently and absentmindedly stitching or knitting something for the family; a cap, a cushion cover, a scarf. Watching her at work was therapeutic in itself; the rise and fall of a needle, setting an even rhythm, like clockwork not missing a single step. It was almost musical, this demonstration of muscle memory and the harmony between mind and body.

In the summer of 2003, Nani was at her creative best. Her ancient Usha sewing machine would regularly be singing and she’d have a look of immense satisfaction after completing particularly challenging portions of her stitching projects. It was a rather lovely summer. For once in her life, she had the luxury of physical space. She lived in a large, sprawling house which had multiple orchards attached to it. Everyday at teatime, there would be a steady supply of perfectly ripened mangoes and litchis and grapefruit freshly plucked from their trees.

And Nani was surrounded by her grandchildren; the other thing that gave her great satisfaction.

As a restless six year old, I had an intense fascination for Nani’s stitching paraphernalia. She would also guard it fiercely; her scissors meant specifically for cutting cloth could never be used to cut ordinary things like paper or tape, the shuttle and bobbin of the sewing machine were deemed as precious as rare gemstones. She would let me run the handle of the sewing machine but had used horror stories to instill in me a mortal fear of the rapidly-moving needle.

On a rare occasion, I found myself alone with her sewing machine, playing with the shuttle and bobbin unsupervised. The tiny silver bobbin used to remind me of the enormous wire spools that would be lying on roadsides and near construction sites. I had some bizarre interest in repeatedly putting the bobbin into its shuttle case and hearing it click. It resembled a tic, my urge to keep hearing that clicking sound.

I now don’t clearly remember what happened that day. In my disjointed memory, one moment I am playing with the small shuttle and bobbin, and the next moment there is a hullabaloo over these critical parts of the machine going missing. Nani is extremely perturbed and has raised an uproar. Her precious gems are missing and everyone in the house is being rallied. The search and rescue mission is top priority for the day and questions are being asked to identify their last location. Where could they go? Who would take them? Why would someone take them? Could they be stolen? Could it be x person or y person? The search continued in vain.

I think I accidentally dropped them, either in the garden or in the toilet, I don’t fully recall. Or maybe I hid them for safekeeping in such a safe location that I myself couldn’t find them later. Either way, it was too late. Nani’s worry had been ignited and as everyone’s favourite little child, I was too terrified of rebuke to open my mouth. I chose instead to keep up appearances. Feigning ignorance and appearing completely innocent, I asked earnestly, “Where could they go?”. Nobody suspected me and I discovered then that children can actually be convincing actors if they truly try.

Gradually things returned to normal. New shuttles and bobbins were procured and Nani resumed her work. Her suspicions also subsided. She went back to guarding her machine and its spare parts with renewed caution. My guilt also receded into the background; my conscience was still in its early developmental stages (I’m hoping).

I forgot about the existence of this incident. It must have lodged itself somewhere in the recesses of my mind where most things marked ‘to be forgotten’ lie. Such is my memory now that I can’t remember if Nani ever brought it up in the last 16 years. If she did, I didn’t say anything, because it was only this August, when I was packing up her things and found her sewing supplies, that I remembered its occurrence. I had lost her precious shuttle and bobbin and never told her.

It seems funny to me now that I didn’t confess then because knowing Nani, she would have accepted it as a mistake and let me go without reprimand. As a grandmother she was assured that disciplining fell into the parental department and her job description was pure indulgence. She would have held me close, felt guilty for having caused a commotion and laughed at her own idiosyncrasy.

I think the statute of limitation on my petty crime must have expired by now. Either way, I don’t have the option of confession anymore. It is simply added to a long list of things that I can no longer tell Nani. Did she have to go for me to remember the things that I want to say to her? What of the conversations that were still to be had? Or would no amount of conversation have felt enough? Maybe so. The bobbin is lost and though its memory has been retrieved, the person who made it relevant is irretrievably lost. I am tired of feeling helpless. I can’t tell her now, but maybe if I tell enough people about it, or talk to the air, I can pretend to myself that through some invisible chain of communication, my messages are being received.