knitters = angry mob

And also, some sari success.

Backing up a minute, weltschmerz not really the word I’m looking for. The word I’m looking for but which is not weltschmerz is defined as “homesickness for a place you’ve never been.” I’ve felt this, in some form or another, for most of my life (the non-adult portion, too). You could probably call it wanderlust, too, but for me it’s far more than that. I don’t know if it comes from a need for escape or a hunger for learning, but I’ve never been content with where I am, and while I do not feel homesick for Arkansas (where I grew up), I feel homesick for Chicago, Baltimore, Paris, Blois, London and then some places thousands of miles away which I’ve never been to and where I may never go (like India, which I’m putting in here parenthetically, since I’m sure everybody’s sick of hearing me talk about it by now).

In the spirit of this, I went to a friend’s house and tried draping some of her saris. I have determined that I am capable of a decent nivi drape, unless the sari is still full of starch (as mine is). The silk one I tried worked beautifully, and after three attempts I also managed to get a passable drape out of the atrocious couch-woven handloom that also looks like it’s from the 70s (and actually, once I got it right, it didn’t look half bad, only the print was gigantic and it sort of overwhelmed me, but not in a good way).

We are very close to photo examples of my shaky talent. Like, perhaps two weeks out.

And then, I will also post photos of the tiny baby sweater, which has progressed almost to the bottom hem and then to the picking up of sleeve stitches (I am so not sure about that part) and also the picking up of hood stitches (which seems totally scary when I just look at the pattern and don’t think about the actual project), and I have made great strides in knitting while reading subtitles. In fact, I knit during three separate SRK films, and also while crying at portions of these films (Kal Ho Naa Ho, Veer Zaara) but not at the other one (Don; come on – you’d have to be silly to cry at this film, except maybe when you find out the truth about Vijay and Don, which made me a little sad, though not crying sad, and also now I need to watch the original, because it’s probably also awesome).

In the meantime, I will attempt to make sense of postpositions. I cannot figure out where to put them. It’s like being in 2nd grade all over again. My mother sent me the contact info for our old family friend, but I’m too scared to call, so I’m composing a letter all about naan to send to her in the mail, because that’s all I feel confident talking about (but not future naan or past naan, or naan in any location except floating in limbo, or as a person who is not on, under, around, with, or through anything). I feel oddly proud that I can say, “mera naan sundar hai,” (“my bread is beautiful,” I think) which gets me nowhere, but is amusing to teach to friends. When I was first learning French, I delighted in saying, “je suis un croque monsieur” which translates to “I am a ham and cheese sandwich,” so this is kind of expected of me, all things considered.