Woven in the Silk Strands

Rashila is delicate and soft like a silk scarf. She waits over everyone’s desires and aids in fulfilling them. She is not what one would call a strong character at first glance—one of those strong women with defiant eyes, waiting to create a change in this world, leaving behind a defined footprint. No, she seems almost weak and submissive at first, but that is not entirely true. After all, how can you truly know one’s strength just like that, by looking at them? Maybe you can. But with Rashila, it takes some time to know it—to truly understand it.

The strength is woven into her delicately like strands of silk, invisible to most. That is how you can tell when a silk scarf is most valuable, when you cannot see the individual strands that make up its fabric, when the final product looks effortless.

Rashila grew up in a conservative family in a smaller town in India, where she was raised to marry and serve her husband and then to have kids and serve her children. And she did all of this dutifully, for that is what she had been taught to do. When we would go to her home to play with her daughter, she would offer us snacks that she had made just moments before, fresh from the steaming pan. Warm and spicy Pav Bhaji, sweet jalebis fried with goodness, tangy bhel—just enough to leave me wanting more.

Months later, I moved to another school and lost touch with her daughter. But one day, months or maybe even years later, my mother met Rashila at a grocery store and their acquaintanceship kindled into a friendship, sweet and soft.

My mother would go to Rashila’s home for tea and sometimes my mother would call her over while I was at school. Their friendship was secret, but I caught wisps of it in conversations my mother would excitedly share after their meetings. Rashila was a devoted wife, often too devoted for my mother’s liking. Rashila was not allowed to call her parents over because her husband didn’t like it. She worked long hours in the kitchen when her husband’s parents stayed over because her father-in-law wanted fresh food four times a day. Her mother-in-law thought it important for her grandchildren to eat rotis hot from the stove, so Rashila ate last after making them for everyone. She served each person at the table until they lazily gestured with their palms to indicate that they were satiated.

On my mother’s birthday, Rashila gifted her a painting she had made of Buddha—swirls of olive green, yellow, and brown. We kept it at the entrance of our house, welcoming everyone with the radiance and peace of Buddha. Another day she gave my mother a peculiar hand-painted clay lotus affixed to the top of a stick. Unsure of what it was, I stuck it into a pot of shallow green plants on our balcony. It looked quite pleasant in that pot, as though that pink and purple lotus with its shimmery sheen had been made for our quaint little balcony. It was not an obvious addition, but if you gazed around and tried to look for it, it would pop out affectionately.

That is the way a lot of strength is—if you look close enough, you can see it embedded in the strands of the fabric. But that is all I know about Rashila, really. She is a stranger to me, and I to her. Someday when I feel wilted and I happen to see a delicate silk scarf, maybe I will think of her and her warm snacks, or maybe I will think of her shimmery pink lotus protruding out of the plants in our balcony. Maybe I will think of how her husband doesn’t let her parents stay at her home, but she still makes fresh rotis for her in-laws. Maybe I will think of how she binds her family of four with her love and positivity. Maybe I will think of how she made fresh parathas every morning to pack a hot lunch for her two children. Maybe I will think of when she gifted what my mother would later call “the best painting in the house.”

I have not heard about Rashila for a long time now, but maybe one day the memories of her will remind me of the delicate strength I have embedded in me, almost hidden at times.

Tania Apshankar is a Creative Writing major at USC. She enjoys submerging herself in the arts and is especially passionate about writing, making music, and painting. An explorer, wide-eyed, she sees this world and is receptive to inspiration from all aspects of life.