The Big Importance of Little Things

Even today they sell similar handkerchieves in a three- pack on the street. I see them when I go to the market, and smoke gets in my eyes.

I must have been around six years old. All dressed in a freshly pressed frock, hair brushed and pony-tailed, I accompanied my mother in an auto rickshaw. Swishing my hair, it felt very fine to be so well groomed. The scallop-edged hankie she pinned on my dress made me feel very important. It had a mild fragrance of Ponds powder and Eau de Cologne. She had folded it in a triangle, and the floral wisp felt more like a pretty accessory than a utilitarian thing.

Going out with Mother was always fun. She conversed with me on several issues that seemed important. We used to play word games along the way, or I would hear her sing. She would recount humane stories, some personal and some from literature. Her soft hands, with the unique shape, their lines, the texture, felt warm and secure. I wished to hold them forever, and at that point in time, in that very moment, she was mine alone.

She had to be some place that dusty, windy day. We played identifying ragas, one of my favorite games as the auto climbed the hilly terrain making guttural sounds. I fiddled with the triangle in front, and smelt the cleanness of it. The flowers and lace made me happy, and I pretended to pat my face with it. Surely I must have unlocked the safety pin, and somewhere along the way, unbeknownst to me, a breeze swiftly blew the little fabric away. With my routine checks, it could not have been too long. I looked down to pat my nose, and to my chagrin, I saw no handkerchief. I looked around the vehicle, but it was of no avail. It must have blown off outside. Mother’s eyeballs reflected a sad girl back. Incoherent words tumbled out of my mouth about the loss. She listened patiently. Mother quickly figured out the chain of events and reassured me we would look for it. I did not believe it could be retrieved. The hunt began.

The auto driver was quickly briefed about the tragic loss. He initially looked surprised; he did tell her it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. She wanted to take that chance, and he was only too happy to oblige with his running meter.

So he went back the way he came, and there was no sign of the flimsy thing. I saw her looking for it outside while I looked too, and we went quite a way. I was ready to give up, but in one of the streets, within the swirl of the dust cloud, it was flying with other pieces of paper. I remember crowing lustily with delight, and we stopped right there and let the rickshaw driver retrieve it. At that time, getting the now dusty handkerchief seemed like a prize. I loved her then, and I admire her most today.

All along, she never said that it could not be done, and that she needed to be elsewhere. She was there with me then. In one auto ride, I learned what it is to chase hope without giving up.

There was no need to ask her the what-if question. With her action alone, she demonstrated the worth of trying to find something. This concept clicked only much later in my mind. At that moment, I was happy to have found the material treasure.

The auto fare probably cost more than the price tag of the handkerchief. However, she displayed that rare adult consideration for a mere fabric scrap by looking at it through the eyes of a child. How could anyone put a value on that?