By Virbala Kumar
TORONTO: I, the silken smooth saree, had already had a tedious journey all the way from South India to the northern province of Bihar. I was woven at a flourishing textile factory on the periphery of the city of Chennai (then Madras). My destination was a popular saree shop known by the name of Sahaili in the city of Patna.
Sahaili housed thousands of saris of different materials, colours, textures, style of embroidery, weaves; saris for all sorts of occasions. Rampersad, a very young salesperson, and his helpers, draped and modeled hundreds of sarees every day. They displayed and folded beautiful sarees continuously, without any fuss, because their very livelihoods depended on meeting a monthly quota of sales.
But they weren’t just businessmen. They were good at their craft. Being a new-comer, I was anxiously waiting for Rampersad to extol my virtues to any prospective buyer so that I could be selected, and begin a productive course of life. A young couple walked in. They were on their honeymoon from Canada. It was obvious that they were newly married. She was coy, enjoying all the attention of her young husband. He in turn played the part of a perfect partner; attentive, generous, and willing to please. The young lover, wanting to impress his new wife, waved away the display of the first few sarees and said rather impatiently, “Hmae sub say accha saman dekhayo” (show us your best merchandise).
I longed to be a part of this romance in their lives, but I reminded myself that I was just a simple turquoise silk saree supporting a meagre gold boarder and a simple pallo. What chance did I have when there were so many sarees, each one much more beautiful than I? The other sarees would laugh at the boldness of the idea that I, a simple saree, would have the chance to make my way through the world before their ornamental beauty left the shelves of the shop. The only asset I could boast about was my vibrant colour, but I was bolstered by the belief that this was enough. If only given a chance, I would show her how wonderful I could be.
SHANNON SKINNER: WHY I WORE SAREE TO INDIA
As if reading my mind, the young lady looked past the display of elaborate sarees, and pointed directly at me. Ramprasad wasted no time in getting me off the shelf, and draping me on his rather effeminate body, he did a short catwalk, praising the quality of my silk and my simple, yet elegant, style. He added that the likes of Jaya Bhaduri and Hema Malini, popular film stars of the time, wore similar saris in their latest movies. “Bhabiji,” he said, “had very good taste!” He made the sale.
The young lady was ecstatic with her purchase. Swathed in my silk, she pranced around her bedroom, folding and unfolding me, feeling my soft weave against her face, asking her husband to feel my silky lines. She flirted shamelessly, sure of his interest. His entranced look egged her on, and she became bolder, wanting him to be closer to her, to the silk adorning her young body.
Soon the honeymoon in India was over, and the couple packed their bags with all their newly acquired clothes and goods, and returned to Canada.The freezing winter of Canada was somewhat hard to get used to. All I wanted to do was to stay in the comfort of my closet, bundled with her other saris. Popularity had its own price to pay, and being her favorite, she picked me often for her outings to different social events.
I noticed not many people wore sarees in Canada, so there was not the competition I had come to expect from my time in Chennai and Bihar. I invited many glances, some appreciative, some down-right condescending, and at times, even rude. In spite of all these drawbacks, I was content to be in Canada, because I was in an exciting home with a woman who truly loved me. I loved the way she would look at me on the shelf, and the glee that would overcome her as she put me on, instantly feeling beautiful and radiant wrapped in my silken arms.
After a brief amount of time, there was good news not yet obvious to others. The young bride was expecting a baby! The couple were thrilled. Whenever she wore me, I could feel the bulge of her womb growing; the new roundness of an imperceptible bump securely wrapped in my protective embrace. I felt the flutter of the baby’s first movement even before she did, the feeling drowned out by her diaphragm, too busy helping her belt out sweet songs of love and hope. The baby’s heartbeat was like music to my ears, keeping time with its mother’s voice. The rhythm soothed me, reassured me that life was on the way. It communicated with me. I built a special bond with the baby even before he was born.
The baby boy arrived the 4th of February, 1974. The household became busy and erratic. Everything revolved around the infant’s sleep and feed times. It seemed we, the saris in the closet, were forgotten. The tired mother walked around the house only in her nighties, no time for extravagances and splendor. I longed to feel the baby again, and missed the rhythm of his heartbeat.
After six long months, they decided to have Unprashen for the baby. The excited mother reached into her neglected closet, fumbling through the many sarees, deciding what to wear. I was on edge with anticipation, knowing there were many others in this
closeted sanctuary, hoping to be draped across her. I remembered the words of the other sarees in Bihar, the laughing and jesting at my expense. Surely she would choose something elaborate for such an occasion. Yet again, the young woman reached past the others and selected me. I was the one chosen to grace the occasion!
I was excited to be a part of such a special day, to grace her figure, and to feel the supple skin of the new baby against me. But it was not the same as before. The plump matronly figure of the new mother wrapped in my silk was no longer the slim figure of a blushing bride. The baby I had longed to feel threw up on me as he burped. I was no longer a desirable showpiece, but instead, just a lowly stained silk sari, relegated to the floor of the closet. This young family with a new baby was on a strict budget, so I had to suffer my soiled state for quite some time.
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Finally, I was retrieved from my shameful position, and brought to the dry cleaners. I came back a different soul, no longer vibrant, now a muted shadow of my former self. I was left hanging in the back of the closet for months on end, and when I did get a chance it was for some drab event. All the other sarees gave me sidelong glances, whispering about me in dry, hushed tones. I could hear them snicker at me, and realized my days as a favourite were numbered. I was soon out of the closet more often, but instead of fancy parties and gala events, my life was filled with vacuuming and scrubbing, with cooking and cleaning.
Slowly but surely, my simple gold edges began to fray. But past the hum of the vacuum or the heat of the stove, I felt a rhythm once again keeping time with her singing. I felt the heartbeat growing within. I knew a second set of pitter-patter was on its way. I knew this time I would not be chosen for the gouth baraie, so it was no heartbreak for me when the saree three hangers away was chosen to do the honors. In fact, I was quite content to just hang around and rejoice at the sound of the happy activities of the family.
The new baby boy was born on the 12th of July. Lots of relatives came to see him, and it was a busy time again for the family.One day soon after the baby’s Unprashen, the tired mother announced she was going to change her mode of dressing. Saris, she said, were not practical with two active children running her in circles. Besides, they were too cold in the winter, and not at all graceful with winter boots. She was also tired of the judging glances, the bitter remarks, and the constant ignorant fools with the gall to yell at her; different people, different times, but always the same word: Paki.
She was tired of being gawked at. She was tired of being an outsider. She just wanted to fit in. There was much discussion regarding it. Pantsuits were bought, and only the very special saris for special days were left in the closet. I was dismissed to the basement with many others. My fall from grace had come over a period of time, and I had come to accept my new position.
The other sarees did not take to their new role so easily, and cried and complained, blaming the new country, blaming the woman who had so carelessly cast them aside, blaming their kismet. I ignored their protestations, their complaints, keeping my ear tuned to the everyday life upstairs, and keeping myself entertained with the customary squabbling of the young brothers, followed quickly by the peals of laughter, letting me know nothing was amiss.
Occasionally I would hear husband and wife arguing. As selfish as this sounds, this was a happy sound for me, for it meant the woman would withdraw to the basement to cool her temper. She always channelled her anger by being creative. She would sit down at her sewing machine, and with each whirr of the motor, I could feel her relaxing and allowing her anger to melt away. After a short while, I could hear the sweet tunes rise up in her throat, and the voice of the blushing bride drifted into the closet, lulling me with its familiarity. She opened the closet often, selecting different discarded saris to work with. She made beautiful tops out of many sarees, much to their chagrin. But she was giving them new life, and though I envied those that made their way back upstairs in a new form, it was with a sense of relief that I remained behind, intact, gathering dust in the damp confines of the basement closet.
It was from here I kept watch over the lives of the two young boys. As young children they came to the basement every day to play with their toys and each other. They read their books mere feet away from me, and would drape many of us from the ceiling to create tents at sleep overs with friends and cousins. I was their castle, their fortress, and their silken cave. I revelled in the glory of it as they fell asleep, their cheeks resting on my golden edges that had curled up over their pillows, their heads heavy and weary from the excitement of their imagined adventures.
Time does not stay still, a fact made apparent by the many “happy birthdays” sung by choruses of children at basement
parties, an indication that the boys were growing up. Soon birthday songs were replaced by sangeet songs, and one by one the boys were married, moving out to establish their own households. I missed them very much, and thought of the saris being worn at their weddings, of the excitement of being draped over a blushing bride, flirting shamelessly with her newfound partner.
With the children gone, the mother had a lot of time on her hands. She entertained often, volunteered for several organizations, kept herself busy. But whenever she missed her children, she came to the basement, where she would spend time going through their toys, books and crafts, old birthday cards and the old t-shirts that she had sewn so lovingly. It was through an older, strained voice that the songs flowed forth. Love and hope were often replaced by sadness and longing. The joy that had burst forth from a young woman was replaced with a more knowing, truer voice. She was singing my song, the song of something once loved so much, but now secluded away in a basement, reminiscing about times gone by. That fateful day in July she was on a mission. She had decided to have a garage sale. She went around labeling articles to be sold. Old vases, broken trinkets, unused dishes. She opened the closet and rooted around, taking out long forgotten saris from their resting places.
To my horror, I was one of them! How could she do this to me? I was distraught. Utter dismay engulfed me. I had been a part of her life for the last 40 years. Disbelief finally gave way to more rational thinking. Perhaps this was for the best. As I had accepted my banishment to the basement decades before, I accepted my new fate. If she did not want me anymore, then I would move on. It had been a long time since my start in Madras, since the young woman had pointed past the others and chosen me in that shop in Bihar. The garage sale was a great success. It was a sunny day, and many people came out seeking bargains. Items around me were snapped up left and right.
Old children’s toys made their way to new children. Broken trinkets were haggled over and sold. Several times customers were drawn to me. Questions were asked, my silk rubbed between their soiled fingers, as if judging my quality.
The saris around me left, one by one, but not me. Offers were made. Money proffered. With each offer, she would raise the price. Higher and higher. At first, I didn’t know what to make of it. But I recognized the gleam in her eye. At the end of the day, the tables were cleared, and all the items left behind were unceremoniously tied up in trash bags, no use to this elderly couple, and of no desire to the throngs of bargain hunters. Tired as she was from wheeling and dealing all day, she took me downstairs. The sewing machine hummed to life, and for an hour the whirring of the motor told the husband upstairs that she was hard at work. The song that she sang, foot pressing down over and over on the pedal, was the song of that young bride. It was again the song of love, and hope for the future. She repaired my frayed edges as best as she could with her tremulous hands, and carried me back upstairs, all the way to her bedroom. She draped me on her aging body, and to my immense joy she did a little dance in front of her mirror. Her cheeks flush with youth, she carefully folded me, and placed me lovingly back on the shelf in the closet.
