A part of me

There is one tear, and a few smaller ones.

Those tears however ugly and uncivilized they may look to others are, for me, a mark of love and a beautiful bond that stood the test of time.

It started when I was in my mid-twenties, and for more than 3 years, it has occupied the top of my heart.

Yes, my favorite white t-shirt has a hole on the back just below the collar, and a few tiny ones on the bottom, and yes, I get very protective of it when someone asks me not to wear it.

It’s not just a tshirt anymore—it’s my time stitched into cotton.

I bought it for 199 rupees, and it was one of the first pieces of clothing I bought with my own money—without asking anyone for permission. Back then, 199 was the highest amount I could spend without feeling guilty about it.

I bought two other t-shirts along with this one, one maroon and the other one grey. The main actor of the story, the white t-shirt, was worn and torn simply because I wore it more than its two brothers. Nothing about them tells me the other two are jealous of their most preferred sibling. They coexist, they coexist in such a peace, that they all give me almost the same level of comfort they earlier did without minding a bit of preferential treatment. Some would say Peace is my favorite word, but maybe it came from here, who knows!

It all feels so full of sense and belonging—how could people just not see it?

I am sure those who don’t agree with me have either not experienced the comfort and peace of wearing your rugged clothes, or are not confident enough to admit it.

We are in a frenzy for new clothes, even with the smallest excuse. And what happens to our old ones? What I know for sure is that this craving seeps into our habits. 

The constant want for something new leads to a constant desire for dopamine, and makes us less and less satisfied with what we already have.

For me, nothing beats the comfort of lying in my memory-filled piece of cloth on a summer morning.

Maybe that’s the thing we don’t hold onto clothes, we hold onto the version of ourselves that wore them. It carries a version of me I miss sometimes.