Damask

Damask is a fabric using basic weaving techniques of the Byzantine and Islamic weaving centre of the early Middle Ages and derives its name from the city of Damascus, a city that is sadly torn and destroyed by conflict today and where one hears the jarring sounds of rockets and missiles instead of the soothing sounds of weaving looms. As Damascenes say: we don't know what tomorrow will bring.

This post however is not on the war in the Middle East but on the fabric damask in one of its favoured avatars: tablecloths, as you would have guessed by looking at the picture. This is a picture taken from the net but it could have been taken in my home when I was a little girl. Even the glasses, the tableware and the flowers look uncannily like the tables my mother use to set for the numerous parties that she organised in her 30 years as a diplomat's spouse.

Yesterday in one of the sporadic cleaning sprees that happen in this house, two rather used and yellowed plastic bags were discovered in the linen cupboard. They were stuffed with ma's old damask  tablecloths and napkins. For those who did not know their story, they were good for the recycling bin.  I was not party to the cleaning spree and happened to see the two bags in time. I guess my extreme reaction to the idea of throwing them away was incomprehensible to all present but I was in no mood to explain and say more than: you can throw them after I die!

They will once again take the place they have occupied in the cupboard and wait till my time comes. I guess I should have explained my feelings and thoughts but somehow I knew that no one would be able to understand them truly. If you open and look at them, they are a far cry from the beautiful pieces lovingly purchased by my mother. Today they have stains and even tears and have lost their sheen. But every stain and tear holds a childhood memory and I am sure many forgotten ones too.

I guess some of them must be almost 50 year old and it is a tribute to Ma's skills that they have survived in such a good condition. I remember how each stain was first handled and how each piece was hand washed under her supervision. Ma did not like cooking and I think the God's played their cards well when they selected her husband as Pa's passion was food and cooking. Mama's forte was the table decor and she did a great job. These yellowed pieces of cloth remind me of how well my parents dovetailed their talents.

It is around these now ugly tablecloths that my parents entertained what one may call the rich and famous but also a bunch of eclectic people that could range from painters, to poets and writers; royalty and nobility form many lands; diplomats and politicians but also the humblest of people that they met along the way. Around their table everyone was treated equally and probably that is one of the lessons their only child learnt very early: all humans are equal and need to treated and respected in the same way. I have never allowed myself to forget this lesson.

I also remember the number of times I was awoken hastily from my sleep my mama and asked to put on my best party dress and come down to the dining room as a guest had dropped out and there would be 13 at the table so I was to be the 14th guest. For a 7 or 8 or even 10 year old it was exciting beyond words. Never mind if I had already had dinner and had school the next morning. I could eat a meal all over again and loved the fact that I was doing so at the beautifully laid table talking to adults and important people. Being an only child born to middle aged parents, the adult world was a familiar one and somehow I liked talking to grown ups. My parents often told me that I could hold an intelligent conversation. I do not know if they were indulging me or whether it was the innumerable number of books I consumed. But sitting at a table with big people was as close to a fairy tale I could get. It was on these worn out tablecloths that these fairy tales were unfolded. I cannot recount each of them as there are hidden in deep and almost unreachable recesses of my memory, but the sight of these pieces of cloth bring forth collective memories that fill me with warm and happy feelings. How can one throw such memories in a trashcan!

I know they will remain in their ungainly plastic bags, but the memories tucked within their folds make them precious and unique. Once I am no more around, then I guess they will just metamorphose into yards of tattered cloth fit for the dustbin!