Edgestitch
Text by Sophie RonodipuroShe will wake up before the sun even considers rising. Her head hangs heavy, and the crust in her eyes does not come away easily. A thin layer of sweat films across her skin. Her fan lies across the room.
She will sit up and yawn. This is not her first time waking up this early. She doubts it will be the last. But she has no time to think about these matters. There is a job to be done. So, she will bend her knees and push herself off the bamboo mat. Once she is up, she will stretch her limbs like a starfish, hear the slight crack of her bones and feel her muscles grow.
She will make her way towards the small table next to her bedroom door. It is kind to call it a door. The years of monsoons and storms meant the original door eventually rotted and withered away, so her mother attached a curtain to the top of the door frame. A woman deserves at least a little bit of privacy, she said, especially when she is at work.
She will sit herself down onto the old chair, rub her eyes again to rid herself of the sleep, and look up. On the table there is a sewing machine. One that she has had her hands all over since she was old enough to reach the table without stumbling over. She’s sure it used to be some shade of green, like the jelly floating in every cup of cendol she treats herself with from time to time. Maybe this is one of those jobs that will pay enough for two cups of cendol. Her mouth will water at the thought.
She will place her hands on the jacket she left carefully under the machine’s needle. She will lower her head and peer carefully at the needle, making sure it’s lined up exactly where it needs to be. She’s never satisfied, the perfectionist that she is, but there’s no time to worry over millimetres. The jacket must be ready soon, or she’ll risk angering her most important customer.
She will press her foot down on the pedal below the machine and hear that familiar whirring. Slowly guiding the needle through the garment, she will keep her hand steady on the fabric. Her eyes steady on the stitching. Her foot steady on the pedal. Until her neck begins to cramp up with a familiar soreness and another layer of sweat builds. She will almost be done with this jacket, after days and days of making sure it would be perfect for her best customer. Threading the machine with the perfectly coloured thread, gently pressing her foot against the pedal, stretching and moving the fabric to form the perfect seam, and knotting it all together. She has done this a million times, and she will do it again today.
She will do this until the sun begins to peak over the horizon. She won’t know how long she will have been bent over the cendol-green machine, only that her callused fingers will have begun cramping as well. But the jacket is almost done, she tells herself. Finally, it will be time to pull it away from under the machine. This is her favourite part, when she starts sewing the buttons carefully onto the edge of the jacket’s opening. She loves this part because she gets to really use her hands, as if she were leaving her invisible fingerprints all over the garment.
She will take each polished button and place it onto the carefully marked spots. She will weave the needle and thread in and out, in and out, in and out until she goes to reach for the last button. But she won’t find it. Even after scouring every inch of her small room.
She will look out the window and see the sun. At least a quarter of it has risen above the horizon, which means the market will open soon. If she hurries, she can make it just in time to buy the button—and it must be the right button—and come back home with plenty of time to finish the jacket. With the lightest of steps, she will put on the same clothes she wore yesterday. Nobody will notice anyway, and there’s no time for vanity now.
She will pull the curtain away and flinch as it whispers against the doorframe. She will tread lightly across the living room and see her husband lying across one of the chairs close to the front door. She will tell you that she never noticed the three small bottles splayed across the floor next to him, but this will be a lie. She will tiptoe towards the door, careful not to wake him. When she finally crosses the boundary between her home and the world, she will run.
She will run and run and run, not even worrying about how she may look. It does not matter. She will run until she skids to a stop in front of the market entrance. Thankfully, Tante’s shop is located along the front side of the market, easily spotted as soon as you enter the market. She will bob in and out of the early crowd, like a needle and thread, until she reaches the shopfront and sees the familiar face. Tante, she will say, do you have the same buttons I bought last time? Tante will smile. You’re lucky, tante will say, I almost sold the last one yesterday but the lady changed her mind. Tante will turn around and rummage through her vast collection of buttons. It will feel like a thousand years before Tante pulls out the exact button she needs. She will pull out several coins, hoping and praying that it will be enough. And it will be, just about. She will place them onto the counter, take the button, and run.
She will run and run and run. There is nothing that will be able to stop her, nothing at all, until something does. It will be a little boy sitting on the edge of the pavement with an older man next to him. Probably a father or uncle or someone that means something to him. The little boy will be scratching away at a wrinkled piece of paper. If she listens carefully, and she will, she’ll hear the older man reciting numbers. She never attended school, so she doesn’t know what those numbers mean, but she will remember the sparkle in that little boy’s eyes and the tight feeling of hope wrapping around her belly.
She will arrive home and tread lightly across the living room, passing by her husband (and the bottles) and part the curtains to her room. She will drop into the chair in front of the cendol-green machine, take hold of the jacket, place the final button onto the carefully marked spot along the seam, and stitch. Once this last button has been stitched, she will let her shoulders drop and a sigh of relief will leave her body. Later in the day, she will meet a woman outside of a large house and hand her the carefully folded jacket. She will collect her payment and keep it close to her body as she returns home. She will use some of it to buy rice cakes, her husband’s favourite, and a small cup of cendol he will never know about.
She will wake up one day and see her best customer wearing the best jacket she has ever made. On a newspaper lying carelessly on the side of the road. She would have never even noticed this newspaper, but she could always recognise one of her jackets. Even with her eyes closed. The photo will show a group of men sitting in a semi-circle, all presumably wearing their best clothing. But in the middle of this group will be the man wearing her jacket.
She will know who he is, despite having only spoken to (his favourite) wife. She will know what he has done. She’s not stupid after all. And everyone has heard his name and the stories of his strength, his intelligence, his courage. Everyone has heard the heaviness behind each word as he declared us free. But all that will not matter to her; she will only think of the perfect jacket with the perfect buttons.
She will smile and continue on her way. There is another jacket waiting for her at home, sitting under the same needle attached to the same cendol-green machine. She will make sure these men look their best. She will think about the little boy scratching away at a piece of paper. She will think about a swollen belly and the weight (she hopes) it will carry. She will dream about the days to come.
Thread. Pedal. Seam. Knot.
Artist Statement -