The Silk Scarf

In a small Srinagar shop, a search for silk becomes a journey through memory, language, and life's little ironies.

- Aisha Hasnain

I called the shopkeeper on a Sunday. I wanted to buy a couple of Kashmiri silk scarves and had some time to spare. I wasn't sure if his shop would be open, but I decided to check.

Years ago, I had ordered a veil for my lehenga from him. Despite a lockdown at the time, he had gone out of his way to deliver it on time. I remember his kindness.

Now, after all these years, I found his number on Google and called. He said the shop was closed for the day but asked me to come by at 11 the next morning.

By 11:30 am the next day, I was at the shopping complex. He did not show up until around 12:15. Just as I was about to give up, he arrived.

I have noticed something strange about how the universe works: Answers seem to arrive just as you're ready to walk away. When I once shared this observation with a wise friend, he joked, “Then giving up must be the real solution.”

“You're very late, sir,” I said when he finally arrived. He is a thin figure, probably in his early sixties, with a cheerful, comical air.

“No, no. Today is the only time I've come this late,” he defended himself.

“Well, the other shopkeepers told me you always open after noon,” I replied.

“Basically, I'm very loved by my family,” he said with a grin. “I try to leave early, but they hold me back. These other shopkeepers are burdens to their families.” He said it casually.

“I see. Can you now show me some nice scarves?” I asked.