Every winter, when fashion changes faster than the Bareilly breeze, last year’s “brand new” jacket somehow looks tired, and I find myself doing that familiar North Indian ritual — pulling out winter clothes, packing away summer ones, and promising the universe (and myself) that I will not buy anything more this season.

Of course, that promise lasts exactly three minutes.

But today, as I was wrestling with overflowing shelves, something soft and yellow peeked out from the heap.
And right there, in the middle of chaos, my heart softened.

My yellow sweater.
The one knitted by my aunt — Sujata’s mom, who has always been more like a quiet, steady mother-figure in my life. I remember how she had asked me what colour I wanted, what pattern I preferred… and then knitted it with the kind of love that doesn’t make noise but holds you when you aren’t looking.

Every time I wear it, it feels like she’s hugging me without arms.
A warmth no heater or brand tag can replicate.

Soon, more memories tumbled out — HK Aunty’s neatly knitted gloves & cute sweaters she knits every season for me …Rita Aunty’s bright orange cap. Each piece soft and so precious. Because when someone knits for you, they quietly weave a little bit of themselves into every row.
You wear the person, not the wool.

And suddenly, I was back in childhood — those slow winter afternoons when Mom would sit in her favorite corner, knitting needles clicking away like background music. All three of us sisters would demand the same pattern the other one got, creating such chaos that Mom finally surrendered and began knitting identical sweaters for all of us.
Same colour. Same pattern. Same everything.

We looked like a sweet, slightly chaotic band party trio, but we didn’t care.
We were warm.
We were loved.
We were together.

Tell me, does Zara give you that?
Does a Uniqlo tag ever smell faintly of childhood or carry the memory of a woman softly humming while knitting your sleeves?

I know someday I will let go of the fancy, overpriced jackets — they’re seasonal, like trends and moods.
But these hand-knit pieces… they aren’t clothes.
They’re time capsules.

Little woollen whispers from the women who loved me.
And they will always stay tucked in the warmest corner of my winter box —
the one labelled “Treasures.”

⸻Suvi’s Scribble’s