Six Yards Story ~ An Ode to the Sari

 

Voluptuous clouds and a very pregnant sky canopied the Marine Drive and as I walked towards land's end soft tender drizzle caressed my face. The cool moisture laden breeze flirted with my hair. The sea roared its happiness to anyone who had the time and the inclination to lend him an ear or eyes! I stopped my wandering feet which invariably lead me to the Land's end every now and then to soak in the sea smells and sounds.

 

Only, today after the tiff we had in the morning, the ambiance is not as beautiful or soothing, for I miss you and I miss walking this stretch of land with you.

 

“Hey beautiful”  -I heard a voice I could identify anywhere in the Universe but could not see the face that belonged to the voice – due to a most unimaginable reason that it was veiled behind my sari pallu. The baby pink natural silk - hand embroidered in Parsi traditional style with pastel blue flowers,  was all over his face and the pallu fluttering triumphantly, seemed to be mocking me for recognizing him before I could ! Ah the Sari pallu!!!

 

My first memories of a sari pallu are that of my dadi's sari! As a little girl -the times when I had been mischievous and dad and mom would come after me to scold , I would run to dadi's room and hide in her lap beneath her sari, much to dad's annoyance. She would in turn rebuke him – don't be hard on her, she has to go to doosre ghar (husband's home), God knows how would they treat her. And dad's retort would be, “not very well I am sure if she remains as impertinent”.

Listening quite often to such conversations between the son and the mother, hiding beneath dadi's sari I wondered how come she draped such a coarse cloth on her delicate skin, for she always wore a khadi sari, having learnt to spin the charkha during her participation in the freedom movement as a young bride.

She spent a good time in jails and ashrams and wore only those saris for which she or baba had spun the yarn, till she was too frail to do it anymore. I found it quite romantic that a wife would wear a sari spun out of yarn which her husband had spun with great care and much labour!

She switched to saris sold at khadi ashram when both were too old to do any spinning. The cloth felt rough on my cheeks every time she wiped my tears after a dressing down from dad. But it provided the safest sanctuary. Nothing could shelter me so completely than that rough khaddar sari!

Even now I yearn for that emotional security and moral support which only a coarse khaddar sari draped on a frail old lady endowed me with.

 

So? He asked, “Is this the new sari you were telling me about”? The wind carries his voice ever so gently, “must have cost a bomb? “You don't have to worry about it; I paid for it with my hard earned money! He blessed me with an amused look and the sari with an appreciative one. And why not?

I had taken care to choose the material, the purest of the silks from the Cottage Industries Emporium in Delhi on my last visit. Then got it dyed to the colour of my choice from the best Dyers and cleaners in the city - pink it is -baby pink ! And then took it all the way to Md Ali road to be embroidered in florals!

 

Pink ???? Said my mother, why did you bring another pink sari for me? As usual dad was getting a dressing down from ma for getting her yet another pink sari! Dad's work would take him to far off places around the country and every time without fail he would bring back a sari for mom. Each one a specialty of that place.

Moonga silk from assam, kantha work on raw silk or shanti niketan from Bengal, pochampalli silk from Andhra and kanjiveram from tamilnadu, kuchh bandhni chiffons from gujrat and leheriya from rajasthan. He took great care to choose it but mom like most Indian wives always managed to find some fault with husband's shopping, a difficult to please wife she is -unlike her daughter.

I found her daily wear soft cotton saris quite convenient and multipurpose a garment! Always wiped my wet hands and face on her sari pallu which multi tasked as dad's face tissue, my hand towel and of course mom's well – SARI! The only dress she ever wore after her marriage. She is fortunate to have a hubby who brings her saris for there are only two kinds of husbands, who buy saris for their wives and the second kind who don't. 

 

“Somehow I can never imagine you in any other dress other than a sari, so said my sweetheart and I glared back at him! Why not? Are you implying that I am a behenji? Don't you know that most women who wear saris are considered backward, un evolved, small town types? “Ha Ha, you a behenji? That's a bad joke! But sweets this is an unalterable fact of my life. To me you symbolize sari, a garb that imparts a feminine demeanor to you, a soothing portrayal of womanly quality that it adds to your form, can not be replaced by any other outfit.

Symbolize sari? Me? That would rather be Ms Irene, our English teacher, who always turned out in stiff starched cotton sari, not a pleat out of place, not a single fold of her boisterous pallu ever budged. She remained nicely pinned and packaged like a gift wrapped woman ! And then one day I saw her cycling near the market in her skirt and blouse, I was awestruck – and with all my heart I hoped to grow up to be such a fine young woman, equally beautiful in an Indian or a Western attire. Now she was an inspiration to all of us at school. She had a huge stock of cotton saris but I think she was more sympathetic to the state of Orrisa, where she belonged.

 

Why don't you ever wear the Sambalpuri Sari I brought you from Bhubaneshwar ? I shrugged my shoulders but dear reader to share a secret with you -I actually never wear it because it isn't mere a sari; it's his love for me woven in bright red and black. We were on a trip to Orissa and I loved this one- the whole seller proudly informed me, “Indiraji used to order these and wear them regularly, and now Soniaji also patronizes my shop!  The one I liked was so expensive! Thick silk, the hue of the red rose, the deepest of blacks and woven ever so artistically! You guessed my hesitation and bought it for me as a surprise on your next visit.

 

How can I ever wear it and allow it to be assaulted with detergents, being pressed out with hot iron, and witness a symbol of your love wear out? Each thread is an evidence of your love, every curvature of 'kairi' (mango shape, most prominently used in traditional Indian clothes) design weaved as though symbolizing the sublime texture of your unimitable sensuousness.

How my love can I wear this sari and see it crushed and crumpled! How can I observe its vibrant colours fade with wear and tear and be apprehensive about our own bond – superstitious as I am about us!!! So it stays hanging in my cupboard, I look at it every day, each day, and innumerable times on days when you are not with me. To feel the sari is to feel you, to reach out to you, especially when life is not easy to get by.

“So sweetheart lets go buy you another pretty sari. I should pay penance for my sins - for making you cry”. That dear reader is all that is required to soften this 'twenty first century strong independent woman' ! We turn back and a smooth wind drapes you with my sari and together we walk hand in hand to the nearest sari shop! 

 

Saris have played a colourful role in my life and undoubtedly in many other Indian women's lives as the most important, unavoidable omnipresent outfit.

Sari is not just a stretch of six yards of cloth; it encloses hues emotions, of love and tears. In its fiber are woven life times of us mere mortals, sometimes a mothers caring aanchal, at times a wife's sensuous, aesthetically designed pallu, a teachers stern look or a granny's tender feelings.

 

Category: Talk Free