Tangled in Time

~ MMC 2.0

How an Old Knitting Book Became a Thread to My Past

I am browsing through a book on knitting.

Knitting? Yes, knitting.

Now, before you start picturing me with a pair of needles, clickety-clacking away at a sweater, let me assure you… I have never knitted a single stitch in my life.

But as I flip through the fragile pages, I’m weaving together stories, looping through memories, dabbling my way into a past I only half-remember.

Because this isn’t just any book. This is Mummy’s book.

I lost Mummy when I was just ten. Fifty-four years have passed. I don’t have much to remember her by… no heirlooms, no jewellery, no trinkets, no secret stash of letters in a biscuit tin. Just her books. And one more thing… her family album.

My house is filled with my dad’s books… shelves upon shelves of them, collecting dust and dispensing wisdom in equal measure.

But of all the books in the world, I have just two that were Mummy’s.

One is this knitting book, and the other is about raising babies. Practical, no-nonsense choices… much like her. I suppose those were the only books she really needed.

And then there’s the family album… Mummy’s album… a collection of black-and-white photos, carefully arranged, with captions in her neat, purposeful handwriting. It’s the closest thing I have to a narrated documentary of our family life… except in grainy monochrome.

Her words bring the images to life, offering glimpses into the stories behind the smiles, the celebrations, the ordinary days that now feel extraordinary.

Whenever I flip through its pages, it’s like she’s still guiding me, narrating our past in her own way. Some captions are factual, some witty, and some leave me scratching my head, wondering what exactly had happened before the camera clicked.

The knitting book is worn now, its pages yellowed with time, the spine barely holding on. But it holds something priceless: her handwriting.

Scattered across the blank pages at the end are notes and measurements… Scrawled reminders in soft pencil and fading ink.

One note reads: Sweater for Chackochan. A wave of warmth spreads through me. My dad’s name was Chacko, but to Mummy, he was always Chackochan.

On the first page, there’s an inscription in delicate, old-fashioned cursive: To Dear Miss Chacko. From Lily Candiah. 18 October ‘58.

Miss Chacko? Of course… she was a teacher.

She must have held this book the way I do now, flipping through patterns, planning stitches, making notes.

I wonder… did she ever finish that sweater for Chackochan? Did he wear it with pride? Or did life, as it often does, interrupt her plans?

Knowing my father, he probably wore it even if the sleeves were uneven and the fit was questionable.

And then another thought sneaks in… did she knit something for me too? A tiny sweater, a bonnet, or a pair of socks I kicked off and lost under the cot, perhaps?

I will never know. But here’s what I do know: this knitting book, probably bought without much fuss, is now one of the most precious things I own. Alongside the baby book and the photo album, it’s part of the small museum of her that I carry with me. Together, they form a thread… delicate but unbroken… that ties me back to the woman I barely got to know.

It’s strange, isn’t it?

How an old knitting guide… meant for yarn and patterns… can end up stitching together the pieces of a heart.
How pages, fragile and yellowed by time, can glow brighter than gold when they carry the imprint of a mother’s hand.
How a scribble in the margin… barely legible… can feel like a whisper across time, soft and familiar.

She may have left decades ago… but in these quiet remnants, she lives on.
Not as a distant memory, but as a presence gently threaded through my life… looped into every caption, every note, every line…
a Mummy who, even now, keeps me gently tangled in time.

17 thoughts on “Tangled in Time”

    1. Thank you so much for this beautiful reflection. You captured the soul of the story in just a few words. Delicate but unbroken is exactly how I hoped it would feel. Truly grateful it touched you.🙏

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  4. Any story on a mum – let alone one’s mother’s memory leaves one teary eyed.

    Good recollection, great series of stories that leaves me too in awe and wishing I had met her.

    There is a certain purity, simplicity and divinity that emerges and there is no doubt a part of her that lives on through you.

    May I start calling you “Chackochan the 2nd” now that you have clarified?

    At some point please do consider reading 5 pages of mathru panchaka, that I will forward separately

    That was the eulogy composed by Sankara for his mother.

    5 verses that outlined a mother’s contribution and state of being.

    You may be able to listen to the verses in Sanskrit too at Spotify.

    Finally do consider creating a “Mother’s Day special – recollections book”. Collect/curate stories. That would help busy people pause and think about their own mothers! That would be a great contribution and a tribute to all mothers. You may also include shankaras eulogy.

    🙏🙏🙏

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  8. Oh, so poignant! My hub lost his mom when he was 17. Older, but still a hard loss for a young person. They had been very close. He never really got over that loss. I understand how the little items, the physical connections can be important.

    I think this is masterful: “Not as a distant memory, but as a presence gently threaded through my life… looped into every caption, every note, every line…
    a Mummy who, even now, keeps me gently tangled in time.”

    Beautiful.

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    1. Thank you so much for these kind and heartfelt words. I’m truly touched. 🙏
      Your husband’s story resonates with mine. And yes, those little physical connections… ordinary things that suddenly hold extraordinary meaning… somehow keep their presence alive.
      I’m really moved that the lines spoke to you. Grief softens over time, but love… love always lingers.

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