Stockings

"I want one too . "

"Ok? " I just about managed a doubtful ok . It was more of a sigh of resignation . I already knew what was to follow . I had just bought a pair of ankle -to-thigh woollen stockings for my aged and arthritic mother . My neighbour, Mrs S has just seen it peeking out of its polythene bag . 

Acting childish , she is as old as my mother but is fit as a fiddle . Except for her runaway blood sugar which she doesn't help by sneaking on sugary treats . On insulin for the last 26 years , she treats her illness like a joke , and fate has been hitherto smiling . You never know when it might run out of patience . 

I had bought two . Luckily . I offered her the brown one . Kept the black one for Maa. 

She opened it , examined the washing instructions ( in impeccable chinese ) and asked me to translate . I professed ignorance . Result , plain indignation . "How can you not know ? " 

"See carefully " "Read and tell me " .

I pretend to read an unreadable script and hum and haw about cold water wash , no spinning , no drying in sun ,etc . Concocting instructions out of thin air . She is satisfied . Looks borderline impressed. 

"Is it nylon ? " "I can't wear nylon . I can wear only woollen . Nylon gives me allergies ." This from her aged sister -in -law , who had trundled into the room , pushing her wheeled walker ahead of her . Today is geriatric special day . She has a squint in one eye . The other eye blinks furiously behind coke bottle glasses . 

Jumping into the stocking fray . She seeks to hold the stockings . She is denied by Mrs S., who quickly folds it and replaces it into its transparent cover , crinkling furiously. "Yes , it is nylon . You can't wear it ." The air is thick with unsaid hostile retorts . I feel like a BBC reporter at  West bank. Ignoring her sister-in-law , she looks at me squarely , "How much ?" 

"Hundred rupees." I stammer . The sister - in -law refuses to be outdone , holds the packet , feels the fabric from top of the plastic cover , and plonks it back on the table . Sniffing ominously, she declares ," This is woollen . Bring me one too . Take the money from me ." She holds her nose and dignity high up in the air and trundles off into the TV room ,. 

Mrs S's face clouds over . I can hear distant thunderclaps . I grab my money and beat a hasty retreat. 

Upstairs , in my home , my  mother refuses to wear them . 

I recount the war downstairs .

 She says , " You give it to them . It is too tight for my thighs ." 

I force her to wear . She declares it is snug and warm . Thanks me , somewhat meagrely .

Next morning , the coveted stockings are lying in a heap on the floor , and my obese , arthritic and old Maa , is happily snoring beneath her quilt , stockingless.