Last December, I made a work trip to India. I swapped staying for Christmas with family for a work trip and went all the way to be a part of the workplace I so long to be a part of. The added perks were to fend for myself and myself alone and to live the life of a loner. "But loner sounds so doom and gloom" One might argue. To the closeted introvert, the word is music to the ears.
So on one such alone trips that was anything but lonely, I met this man from Kashmir. I am a die hard fan of everything Sufi, and to Sufi fans, the name Rumi might be more music to the ears. So when the shopkeeper said "Hello Sister, my name is Rumi" in his sing song voice, I was held captive at the sound of the name. "And may I show you some exclusive pieces all the way from Kashmir?"
I didn't have time. I was just browsing through the isles of a local handicraft hub that is a Mecca of sorts for me - especially during those single work trips I make to my Motherland. And I very well knew how these shopkeepers had a trick or two up their sleeves to convince customers like me to buy things they don't really need with the money they don't really intend to spend.
I knew it was a slow day. Besides, I was promised the dekko of some intricately hand embroidered shawls. Now shawls and I are an extension of one another. Stoles, scarves, shawls - no matter what I choose to call them, one of those thingies coiled around my neck feels like a mother's hug, and a daughter’s caress. And any self respecting art lover worth his/ her salt would pay some homage to handcrafted goods - won't they? At least by taking a pause and smelling the proverbial roses on the busy hub-dub of the daily grind.
Rumi pulled a little cabin-bag to his side and sat down on the cushioned floor of his shack like store structure. He paused, opened the zipper and looked up at me with a smile. "Sister, you are going to catch your breath looking at these pieces. Each one is painstakingly done by old and experienced gentlemen and ladies who are experts at this craft"
I was already transformed into the mountains - Glaciers in the background, grazing the clear teal skyes and birds chirping away while old men with long, cotton like beards and kind, soulful eyes would look down into their emroidery frames, sewing magic with their nimble fingers.
Rumi kept whipping one out shawl after the other, with reverence, and opening them like he had held the most precious thing known to human race. "Look at this piece" - he unleashed a full size shawl before me, holding on to the edges and gently tossing the delicate garment out - where in beautiful and stunningly arranged colors burst out on fine cashmere in assorted florals and avifauna. And at that very moment, I felt not just the holding of my breath, but a feeling akin to falling in love. My gut felt fluffy like little critters were prancing around inside it and my heart raced like a gazelle.
"How much is this one?" I asked, like I had found the one and am not interested to look further. At this point Rumi insisted that I went through his whole stash and I did. Only to flip the stack back and look at the one that caught my attention.
What ensued was gasps, horror, insistence of how pretty the artwork is and how not a millionaire I am to fund such purchases.
Rumi persisted. Or may be the glaciers and the old artisans persisted, or may be the art lover in me persisted. Or it probably was a meant to be moment.
I came home with the shawl tucked into my tote with utmost reverence. I opened it, clicked pics, flaunted it to close friends and folded it back into a neat rectangle and tucked it into a soft kora garment bag - and I don't recollect carrying any material possession as carefully as I had carried home the shawl. One day I dream of a great grand kid that would hold an heirloom shawl in his/her hands and wonder whether he/ she should wear it, preserve it, or frame it and hang it on a wall - so it blesses everyone that passes that way with a viewing!
And that perhaps, would be the best thing my money bought so far, unless some other Rumi in some other handicraft hub would indulge the unassuming me into thinking that by buying the work of art, I'd made the universe smile, and an artisan live and let their art go on to posterity
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