Episode 5: The Curtain of Memories

The house was slowly learning to breathe with me. Each day, it felt a little less hollow, a little more alive. The spice jars in the kitchen glowed like tiny suns, the maroon table runner still caught the morning light, and my painted diyas waited by the window for evening to arrive. Yet, one corner of the house still felt untouched—the living room window.

It was tall and wide, opening into the small lane below. Every afternoon, sunlight streamed through it, scattering across the white walls. But without curtains, the light felt harsh, almost lonely. I had pinned up an old bedsheet as a makeshift cover, but every time I saw it, I thought—it deserves better.

That morning, as I folded the laundry, I found a soft piece of cotton fabric that Maa had given me. It was cream-colored, with faint red borders. I remembered her saying, “Yeh purani saree hai, le ja. Naram hai, kahin kaam aa jayegi.” I ran my fingers over it—it still smelled faintly of her sandalwood perfume.

I spread the fabric on the floor. It wasn’t long enough for both curtains, but I didn’t mind. I would make it work. I took out my needle and thread—the same ones I’d used for the table runner—and began stitching. My bangles clinked softly again, like background music to my thoughts.

As the needle moved through the fabric, I thought about Maa’s house—how her curtains always danced in the breeze. She used to wash and rehang them every festival, saying, “Parde badalne se ghar ka mood badal jaata hai.” At the time, I hadn’t understood. Now I did.

By afternoon, I had finished stitching the first curtain. The edges weren’t perfectly straight, and the stitches were uneven, but when I held it up against the light, it looked beautiful. The sunlight softened through it, painting the floor with a warm golden tint.

I smiled. It was imperfect—but it was mine.

When my husband returned home that evening, he noticed it immediately. “Naya parda?” he asked, his voice carrying that familiar note of gentle surprise.

“Haan,” I said, “Maa ki purani saree se banaya.”

He walked closer, touched the fabric lightly, and nodded. “Accha lag raha hai. Ghar ko sukoon mil gaya.”

His words stayed with me long after dinner. Sukoon. That was it—the feeling I had been chasing. This house wasn’t just changing in appearance; it was beginning to hold peace.

The next day, I decided to make the second curtain. I didn’t have enough of Maa’s saree left, so I looked through my trunk again. At the bottom, I found another piece of cloth—light maroon, from one of my own old kurtas. I smiled. It was as if the house wanted a little bit of her and a little bit of me.

When both curtains were hung together, the window transformed. The cream and maroon flowed like two generations standing side by side—different, yet belonging to each other.

That evening, when the breeze came in, the curtains fluttered softly, brushing against each other like they were whispering secrets. I sat near the window with my cup of tea, watching them dance. The diyas by the sill flickered in rhythm, and for a moment, everything around me felt still—whole.

I looked around—the jars, the runner, the flowers, the diyas, the curtains—and realized something. Every piece in this house had a memory stitched into it. Some from Maa’s hands, some from mine. Together, they were telling our story without words.

Just then, a small thought crossed my mind—what if there were more people like me? People trying to make a house feel like home, using simple things, handmade things, heartfelt things. Maybe that’s where my journey was leading me—to help others find the same sukoon.

I didn’t know how or when, but the thought felt right.

As night fell, I lit the diyas again. Their glow reflected softly on the new curtains, turning the cream fabric golden and the maroon deeper. It looked like the window itself had begun to dream.

That night, before sleeping, I stood by the window once more. The curtains swayed gently in the night breeze, and I whispered, almost to myself—
“Har ghar ko bas ek chhoti si roshni aur ek silai ki zarurat hoti hai.”

And with that, I knew—the house was no longer waiting to be filled.
It was alive now. It had found its heartbeat.
And so had I.