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Before the pharmaceuticals formulated anti-depression drugs, old folks in villages and little towns, believed in the art of quilting. It was an instant euphoria maker that dispelled even the most stubborn elements of depression from people's lives. Coming together with different fabrics and patching up those beautiful strains of creativity into a cohesive whole was what made quilting so challenging and so engaging. Of course, quilting still is a much-loved practice in many communities; it isn't part of the fabric of everyday life now.
But long ago when I was a toddlers and visited our family village, the thing that fascinated me most was those beautiful quilting hours. After having sent off their men to fields or to the market, having got the children out of their hair and into schools, women would collect in one courtyard with reams of brightly coloured fabric, their needlework box and settle down for the next two or three hours to what perhaps was one of the most pleasurable aspect of their otherwise humdrum life. The women came in all shapes and sizes - benign grandmothers, hawk-eyed mothers-in-law, quivering young brides, adolescent girls just at the threshold of adulthood - their camaraderie was so perfect.
Singleness of purpose
They would settle down in the open courtyard at the centre of one home, the sun shining on their bright fabrics, pairs of scissors and numerous needles with brightly coloured thread tails. For the next couple of hours they would meld together, bright and dull patches, adding laces for trimmings, intricately embroidering on some patches or stitching on bright patchworks. Their hands furiously flying in and out with the movement of the needle, these women seemed to be patched up together with the singleness of purpose, indulging in ribald, sometimes breaking into old folk ballads, sharing endless cups of tea and a lot more. The sight was most moving and joyous to little toddlers like me.
As I grew up, I was told there was a tale behind this feverish quilt making activity. It seemed that a very long time ago, when the village was not all that harmonious and united, there existed an alarming level of rivalry among women. They often quarrelled, made scathing comments about each other and rarely paid friendly visits to neighbouring homes. The village matriarch who was much grieved about the state of affairs invited all the women of the village to her home to celebrate the festival of monsoon one day. She announced that she would give one paisa to everyone who agreed to learn quilting. The condition was that every woman would have to bring in a small patch of fabric and had to sing one song or narrate a story each day. The women agreed and began to visit the matriarch's home to learn quilting. The process was so empowering and charming that soon they all bonded and by the time the quilt was ready, their differences had vanished. The matriarch did not live long after that, and the story goes, during her last journey, the women draped her in the very same quilt as a mark of respect. Since then the practice of quilting became a part of the village culture.
Not very long ago, I had the opportunity to visit a quilting guild in Dubai where I watched women from different cultures, races and nationalities, come together on certain days of the week to quilt together. The commonness of purpose and the joy of expressing their creativity dissolved all the other visible differences so eloquently.
When I see nations warring, factions in a country carving up their pound of flesh in politically motivated battles, I really want to buy these bunch of rabble rousers a clutch of bright fabrics and get them to learn serious quilting.
There is an old Prairie saying, "When life goes to pieces, try quilting", which seems so true.
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