FICTION
Image via Flickr http://www.flickr.com/photos/clearlydived/5413473147/ Yarn and bamboo needle
or a difficult pattern stitch, her mother would insist that she put the needles down. Being stubborn as well as impatient, Kari would try to protest. “No, Amma, let me finish this one row. I’ll be done quick-quick.” But her mother’s hand would come to her struggling fingers and snatch away the needles abruptly. Sometimes stitches would fall off, but she made no fuss about it. Almost to distract her, Kari’s mother would then launch into a story. “When I met your Baba, he was a lot older than me. He went to a private school and he already knew English pretty well. All the schoolgirls admired him because he had grades that made his family boast when they were published in the paper. We were small then and we thought that marriage was a far, far thing. We didn’t know our parents were planning it from the
start. They put us near some families and took us away from others purely out of tact—you know how they say some children make influences? We were looking for influence.” “Amma, I think you mean that some kids are bad influences. Influence has two meanings...” “I know, I know, yes. What I was trying to tell you is that your father had good influence. The kind my parents wanted. So when I was finishing my high school, I saw him hanging around our house more often. He was already nearing the end of his university work, so I didn’t pay any attention. A year or two after I graduated though, we got the letter. Baba was already here and he already had a salary coming in! My parents were very excited. Our wedding in the village was very big, very colorful. But the part I remember the most was
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