Bath Mats

The seemingly innocuous, simple accessory called a bath mat has found its place in my life again! I missed it terribly as I walked around, wet feet in rubber flip flops, allowing for evaporation to do its bit. Besides, in the heated on rush of professional and domestic chores, it was easier not to concentrate on the moisture or bath mats. But that is so much in the past now; and among the various present reconstructions, slipped in this innocuous invention called the bath mat via the caravansary on my journey, till I came home, to myself. This morning I let a thick pile of cotton, deep rust in color, soak up the moisture, and dry my feet in almost regal comfort; with the bonus of homecoming as we reconnected! At home, in the blue hills, bath mats were a normal part of the everyday; not only met in upper end caravansary rolled up among the ‘bath-ware;’ but thoughtfully placed on slatted wooden stands. These stands were about two feet long and two inches off the ground, general painted white or blue; dictated ambitiously by the color scheme, or more often, prudently by leftover paint. The bath mat stands were the only pieces, that I could run over with brushes dipped in paint as child , without permission prefaced by “let’s see” from my father, who never stopped being part of the government, regardless of his state of employment. The bath mats continue to comfort, and continue to bring back memories; they were always personal compared to the impersonal- everyone can clean their feet on doormats. So, they lent themselves to svelte goddesses steeping out of golden bathtubs, before they mesmerized the world with their presence. They also lent themselves to the little girl thrilled at being put up at Ooty Club, Nilgiris; allowed to bathe in the tub and step onto the bath mat ( the ambience always lends that extra shine to the taken for granted -at-home); before being snuggled into warm nightwear by her mother. Ma, would then step out with my father, both implacably turned out for the Annual General Meeting, followed by the dance and dinner; needless to say, I was severely underage and club rules were strictly followed. My father would come back at regular intervals to make sure his curly headed baby was fine. The club staff would curate amazing dinners (there is a potato soup ,I recreate to this day) and whisk out books of fairy tales from the club library to keep the little missy happy! Sometimes, it takes the innocuous and simple to comfort one in regal warmth and bridge the past with the present!

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