#Scurf139: Carpets as Portals; or The Stories Rugs Tell
Assailed by menstrual melancholy, I ponder over the power of carpets and the stories they tell
Thursday evening I came down with a slight fever. Friday morning my periods started. And by noon I knew I would be confined to bed. The fever kept ebbing and flowing. Taking away with it my will to do much. Yet I persisted. Reading one Paris Review essay, then another. I tried writing too, scribbles in the notebook nearby. Outside the sun was harsh, reminiscent of June’s summer vibes.
Against everything else, defying my own precedents I decided to step out for a winter stroll and somehow ended up in Dilli Haat. Away from the cloistered tiresomeness of home’s cold, in the lap of a gorgeously sunny day. I walked the length of the haat, taking in the marketplace in its bounty and wealth.
Smiling customers, beaming sellers, wandering kids, and the selfie-folks — there was boundless joy. Enough and more to offset the pall of gloom that usually accompanies my bouts of periods and fever. The deceiving blue skies were in stark contrast against the pista-coloured shawl we bought from the Gujarati weave stall. The Kashmiri stall’s pastel hues somehow cheered me, as I moved from mauve to peach. An iridescence shone over everything.