I have bits of Meera all over me.
She is in the staple, old, and somewhat gold earrings I wear every other day to work.
A black, patterned overcoat that I use to cover my body when I step out wearing something scandalous, belongs to her.
She once lent me a stunning, metallic plate earring for a wedding that I went to. I received several compliments.
About 15 years ago, when we were cementing our friendship, she bought me a beautiful pink high collared top with a small cut on the chest. She said that she would never wear it as it shows a little bit of her cleavage. Things have changed drastically since.
Her swanky maroon pants thrifted from one of London’s several boroughs, are now mine. I need to pull them up to fit that high waist spot every now and then. But it is too pretty to give back.
I still wear her school friend’s older sister’s blue fab india kurta from 2012. Its asymmetric cut has been both loose and tight for me through my body’s journey of amassing, losing and storing pouches of fat. It looks great.
I wear the shirts and shorts that she does not like anymore. Her style has changed over the years. She has changed over the years.
We have been accommodating parts of her old self in my closet for over a decade now.
The fresh pieces of clothing have moved to her new house along with her new balcony, new bed, new sheets, new lamps and new her. I have not visited, dried fresh laundry and had chai at her sunny balcony yet.
It is likely that her cupboard, like her new life, is now adequate, colourful, and filled with the right balance of statement pieces and drab lounging t-shirts four times her size.
But I do hope it has scraps of cloth that comfort her when she cries, or blanket her on stormy nights. She fears the thunder.
I also hope that it holds old, worn out bras that she can wear with nothing else whilst being home alone. The joy and liberation of nakedness is unparallelled.
I am soon going to come and borrow the stuff that she looks best in someday. Her coloured eyeliner and skirts.
She is going to dress me up. I am going to pick her outfit of the day in return. We are going to watch a silly romantic film, nurse some heartbreaks and make some strong ginger tea to eat with biscuits in that balcony. Someday soon. Perhaps, tomorrow even.
In this new space, I am hoping her closet is wide enough for her and the several kind people in her life who have helped her move and tide over the sudden loneliness of living alone. This is besides the several dupattas and fancy jetties she is never going to use.
In this new space, I hope — actually, scratch that — I know, she has bits of me too.
