So there are these two articles of clothing I now own that have become the adult equivalent of a Blanky to me. One happens to be my Dada’s old collared shirt that has become soft and beautifully shabby with age. It is blue and has white vertical stripes and a breast pocket. The collar is still a little stiff, a remnant of the times when Dada used to wear it to office, I suppose. It’s absolutely huge for me- it comes down to a little above my knees, and my hands get swallowed up in the sleeves.
The second is this paati ganji I filched from my boyfriend on an impulse. It is literally innerwear, and I wear it at home on anxious nights, when I’m dreading looming deadlines and scary tasks ahead. Weirdly enough, it’s a snug fit, despite the fact that the aforementioned boyfriend happens to be about a foot taller than me.
Anyway, so I have this exam tomorrow, and a general tense feeling in my shoulders. I did laundry a little while ago, and the ganji came out smelling of fabric softener, and warm from the dryer. Obviously I’m now wearing the ganji underneath the shirt (yes, it’s cold enough to wear layers).
There’s just something about knowing that the cloth that touches your skin now has touched theirs as well, at some point. It’s a strange makeshift sort of intimacy that conjures up the safety you feel with someone you love.
In other news, I’m a sentimental fool. Possibly aged thirteen. Or sixty three.
*Dada is my paternal grampa who passed away when I was in the 9th grade.
**ganji means vest. I’m just not a fan of the word ‘vest’.