If my scarf could talk, it would have many stories to share. Stories of how it is used as a sweat rag when walking in the hot Indian heat. Stories of how it was dragged on the dirt road after a fierce game of tag with some village kids. There are multiple stains, each one telling their own story. The mascara stain is from the tears I shed while praying for a lady not much older than myself. Her husband had left her for another woman, but he would periodically swing by the house and beat her. While praying for her, all she could do was sob. There are also a few coffee and chai stains from the multiple “tea” times we have had as a team. If my scarf could talk, it would share the story of how it was used for musical ribbon dancing and as David’s slingshot… all in the same day. It has come in handy as a tissue for when I have ate super spicy curry and all my nose wants to do is revolt. It would share of the stories of riding on a tuk-tuk while driving through a thick cloud of nasty smelling air and used as a hazmat mask. Or the time it was used as a mosquito net as I sat at a sweet family’s house; I didn’t want to be disrespectful so I nonchalantly covered my body with the scarf.
Even after it is hung up following a long day… it still could share stories. Stories of hysterical laughter from 7 girls who turn into children when the sun goes down. Let’s just say, some people would be ashamed to know us if they were inside these 4 walls. Stories of continual fear of pooping our pants after a day in the village, eating village food.
My scarf has had a rough life. When it was born a month ago, it was white. Today… it is a nice tannish cream color. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Betcha can’t guess which ones mine…
