<p>Knitting has been familiar to me as long as I can remember, yet it never ceases to be something I marvel at if I think of it in any depth. I continue to pursue it as a hobby that I started as a child. Even now, every Friday from 9 am to 12 noon, some 18 of us ladies meet at the local senior centre as the knitting group. We have coffee and pastries and spend the morning knitting and socialising. The scarves, baby blankets, sweaters, hats, and mittens we knit go on a table every week, and at the end of the month are given away in charity to local organisations like hospitals and homeless shelters.</p>.<p>Though knitting as a hobby fascinates me, I have never bothered to find its origin. If I were to search he Internet, I may find answers <br>to how, why, and when it started. I prefer to marvel at it only, and what better way to do that than to climb right into <br>the middle!</p>.<p>Today knitting is called a fibre art and is universal. Where the weather becomes cold, the knitters concentrate on socks and hats. A knitted sock was the hero of a story that my father used to tell us when we were children. Being a textile chemist, he worked at the Binny Mills in Bengaluru and was good at telling stories of mills, chimneys, and British bosses. </p>.Woven into life: The quiet legacy of Haigala Meli.<p>It was somewhere in Wales or Scotland that a textile mill was being built with a 200-foot-high chimney. The work was completed over many months, and the workers started coming down, getting dropped by a pulley that went up and down by means of a rope. All got down safely except for one; the rope broke and the pulley dropped to the ground. Lost was the connection between the chimney top and the ground. There was commotion and fear, and people began to gather to witness the crisis.</p>.<p>One of the onlookers decided to convey the news to the man’s wife. He ran all the way and told the woman what had happened. The smart woman dropped what she was doing and began running towards the mill.</p>.<p>She arrived and assessed the situation. She took off her shoe and then her sock. She had a brilliant plan. She held the sock up, undid the top, and pulled out the end of the yarn. When she had a yard of the yarn, she tied a small stone and dangled it so the sock started unravelling and the yarn grew longer. The man on top understood the lesson fast. He repeated the gesture so the stone he tied to his sock came down and the workers could fix the pulley; he pulled it up, fixed it and brought him down. My father would tell the story with such gusto that we would marvel at the heroic deed of the humble woman knitter and even forget to ask if it was a true story.</p><p><em>Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.</em></p>
<p>Knitting has been familiar to me as long as I can remember, yet it never ceases to be something I marvel at if I think of it in any depth. I continue to pursue it as a hobby that I started as a child. Even now, every Friday from 9 am to 12 noon, some 18 of us ladies meet at the local senior centre as the knitting group. We have coffee and pastries and spend the morning knitting and socialising. The scarves, baby blankets, sweaters, hats, and mittens we knit go on a table every week, and at the end of the month are given away in charity to local organisations like hospitals and homeless shelters.</p>.<p>Though knitting as a hobby fascinates me, I have never bothered to find its origin. If I were to search he Internet, I may find answers <br>to how, why, and when it started. I prefer to marvel at it only, and what better way to do that than to climb right into <br>the middle!</p>.<p>Today knitting is called a fibre art and is universal. Where the weather becomes cold, the knitters concentrate on socks and hats. A knitted sock was the hero of a story that my father used to tell us when we were children. Being a textile chemist, he worked at the Binny Mills in Bengaluru and was good at telling stories of mills, chimneys, and British bosses. </p>.Woven into life: The quiet legacy of Haigala Meli.<p>It was somewhere in Wales or Scotland that a textile mill was being built with a 200-foot-high chimney. The work was completed over many months, and the workers started coming down, getting dropped by a pulley that went up and down by means of a rope. All got down safely except for one; the rope broke and the pulley dropped to the ground. Lost was the connection between the chimney top and the ground. There was commotion and fear, and people began to gather to witness the crisis.</p>.<p>One of the onlookers decided to convey the news to the man’s wife. He ran all the way and told the woman what had happened. The smart woman dropped what she was doing and began running towards the mill.</p>.<p>She arrived and assessed the situation. She took off her shoe and then her sock. She had a brilliant plan. She held the sock up, undid the top, and pulled out the end of the yarn. When she had a yard of the yarn, she tied a small stone and dangled it so the sock started unravelling and the yarn grew longer. The man on top understood the lesson fast. He repeated the gesture so the stone he tied to his sock came down and the workers could fix the pulley; he pulled it up, fixed it and brought him down. My father would tell the story with such gusto that we would marvel at the heroic deed of the humble woman knitter and even forget to ask if it was a true story.</p><p><em>Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.</em></p>
