saree aunty: February 2022

photos credit ferolyn fernandez

Wednesday, February 23, 2022

in a pink nylon saree

it was my maternal uncle’s wedding. may 1966. i was six, my cousins between four and ten. we were five of us girls i think. we were all going to attend the wedding in calcutta and then go to delhi for the reception. my grandmother, always generous, fun, a bit over the top as grandmothers really ought to be, decided to get nearly identical lehengas and sarees made for us.

the lehengas were in red silk with green cholis and red floaty odhnis, lots of shimmery gold zari all over.

the sarees were in various shades of pink. pink nylon… from a calm poised rose to a bright unstinting gulabi. and they had shiny gota work all over. ribbons of silver zari had been cut and trimmed and appliquéd in a pretty pattern on the slippery material; the silver with its cool tinsel sheen and the pink so smooth and ice cream like. they were little girls’ sarees, much shorter in both length and width than regular ones.

rajasthan is well known for gota work, my grandmother had had the sarees made in jaipur, where my grandfather’s younger brother and his wife lived. i will never forget that gaudy happy saree of mine. to me it was beautiful, absolutely perfect; in fact, now that i think of it, i wish i still had it. stays in my mind, its touch, its colour, its pattern, its gota dazzle, the springy feel of nylon.

it was my first “good saree”. not that i had a serious collection of sarees by the age of six, i did have one other saree though. a yellow cotton, which i’d worn for saraswati puja that year. children would often wear sarees for the puja dedicated to the goddess of learning. yellow being the preferred colour, though exactly why i have no idea.

but the pink and silver saree was my hot favourite. i wore it many times after my uncle’s wedding, finding all sorts of excuses to throw it on. i was also convinced i looked impossibly beautiful in it. to the credit of all those who suffered my self obsession, no one damaged my fantasy, quite happily letting me believe, yes, indeed i was gorgeous in pink sparkly nylon.

nylon. slippery and synthetic. can’t say i like the fabric at all. in the sixties though, this human made material was not only in, it may have even been a sign of a contemporary woman, one with a mind of her own even, daring to try new ideas, not just traditional silks and cottons. i don’t know if i read that right, but my mother, maternal aunts, and grandmother often wore nylon sarees; and they were all women with a modern bent of mind, tough, hard to rein in… ha. maybe that’s why i feel nylon sarees said something about the wearer’s personality. there was a very pretty one of my grandmother’s, base off white, tiny rose buds printed all across.

as i write, a thought comes along. was it my my pink nylon gota saree that was responsible for two things in more recent years?

first, when my mother turned seventy, we had a party for her and i was keen to pick up a dhakai for both of us. so i went to this lady from whom i’ve been buying dhakais for years, i chose a lovely black and white one for my mother and then my eyes fell on a pink and silver saree. i couldn’t look away.

this strawberry ice cream hued fine cotton with silver zari glittering on it… i just could not look away. i forgot my age, i forgot my million inhibitions, i had to buy it.

wore it the very next day with a blouse that didn’t match… ten years on, when the saree frayed, i sent desperate whatsapp messages to the lady, with pictures; and very kindly, she had one more made for me. almost the exact same shade.

of course, in the meantime i’d bought another one in pink, just in case this couldn’t be replicated. and i notice, i find it very hard, extremely so in fact, to stay sane when i see a pink saree. plenty of new gulabis suddenly in my cupboard. maybe as i age, a part of me is suddenly racing back, trying to pick up something from back then. catching a gota shine and dragging it here.

second, when my daughter was about six years old, i asked a dear aunt of mine, who has her own boutique, to make a saree for my daughter. there was a wedding in the family. my aunt made a wonderful saree. no, not in nylon. it was a rich blue tussar, embroidered all over, with border and pallu in… pink.

source: imgur.com

would like to thank a friend of mine, for reminding me of our first sarees and how a girl looks all grown up when she gets into a saree.

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sarees tell stories | pink dhakai from sumitra sengupta, calcutta, 2017; pink printed tussar from toontooni, calcutta, 2017; pink rajkot patola from design & drama, calcutta 2016; blue and pink tussar from raya’s boutique, calcutta, 2007.

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Tuesday, February 22, 2022

i feel silly smiling at the phone: the friday saree

this is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but... i don't like being photographed. i am awkward in front of a camera, don't know what to do with my hands, worry i'll look like a gargoyle, feel under pressure, and most inconfident. and it's really silly to smile at the phone.

yet, every friday, after i wear the saree, i go and do just that. how much i've smiled at this rectangular object with no feelings. and poor ibi, the indefatigable cook, who with an impassive face bears all my frazzled posing, takes a hundred shots so i can choose two or three, never complains. in fact, every now and then chirpily says, "smile."

why do i do it? how can i not, when i've worn a saree? here are a few friday sarees from the last couple of months.

think this is the first narayanpet i've bought for myself. the silk is light and falls gently, a whisper against the skin. abhihaara in hyderabad is a society of weavers, always feels good to get a saree from there.

5 november, 2021.

a saree from odisha, bought years ago, not black, a deep bottle green. is this a sambalpuri silk? might be.

12 november, 2021.

i'd never heard of kunbi sarees till a friend from goa mentioned them. i searched the internet looking for them, found a facebook page, they had a whatsapp number, we chatted, and i had my first kunbis. slightly thick cotton sarees, with their trademark simplicity, so basic and honest, you've got to respect them. they fit in with a community's way of life. tough sarees, not at all afraid the heat and dust.

19 november, 2021.

a favourite odisha saree from a lovely young textile designer's shop... vani vrtti. she calls this ananta, a take on flowing water, the pallu has signs of water life. the tussar yarn is rich and soft, hand spun by the women of the area.

26 november, 2019.

a gossamer light cotton chanderi from, of course, chanderi. such a stroke of luck finding ayaz bhai, who'll show you chanderis on a video call, pulling out sarees from almirahs in one room of their house. nearby, his sister in law, bhabi, might be weaving a fine simmering saree.

10 december, 2021.

a patola from rajkot. for some reason, i thought it was an odisha bandha, i was wrong. the colour is sleek and the saree falls like a deep sigh.

17 december, 2021.

a saree from at least thirty years ago, tangerine and peach, thick rich cotton, a nuapatna ikkat from odisha, has a cool demeanour.

24 december, 2021.

a jet black soft silk with wonderful kañtha embroidery in browns and creams, i flipped the pallu and wore it somewhat gujarati style, maybe a little parsi too. last evening of the year, mark it.

31 december, 2021.

first shabbat of the year, i wore this leisurely cotton from odisha, ikkat, not sure from which area exactly, but it's a subtle play of shades, someone said it matched the table cloth, i said, good. obviously in a brown mood me.

7 january, 2022.

a mekhela sador in cotton, from assam, not a saree really, yet anything with the elements of pallu and pleats, feels like one. that flyaway tucked end of the sador adds such a playful note. sassy, even.

14 january, 2022.

when i heard, the tata group, known for its steel plants, cars, software engineering, watches, hotels, etc., were starting a saree shop, i was taken aback. i almost laughed, the idea was so funny. but i'm glad they did. some very interesting sarees at taneira. this one i saw on their instagram account and fell for the story. tussar sarees embroidered by a group of rabadi women in bhuj who had seen the terrible earthquake, the embroidery expresses their emotions of that experience... simple motifs of homes, waves, children, the sun... survivors drawing strength from their craft. consummate needle work, bright colours, you'd never guess they were speaking of trauma.

21 january, 2022.

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photos credit ferolyn fernandez

Friday, February 18, 2022

muga and memories

there were always butterflies to chase after and try and catch; powdery colour left behind on your fingers as the winged one found a way to escape your clutches. not just the usual yellow and white butterflies. they were blue and black, brown with large eye like patterns, some had purple streaks, some ornate wings with frilly edges. in the reserve forest there were many more. and there were moths too. big ones, tiny ones, in the house, in the garden, black, brown, greyish white, part of life. sometimes, you caught a caterpillar and kept it in a jar to see what happens. invariably mine turned out to be a moth.

growing up in assam, i took the jungle for granted, and also the garden. butterflies, orchids, lizards rushing off leaving their tails and eggs, frogs croaking at night, machranga the kingfisher poised above the water, fireflies glowing green in the dark or in your cupped palms, snakes coiled by the side of the road as you walked past trying not to look that way, an egret sitting still on a buffalo's head; roses, marigolds, gerbera, phlox in a profusion of colours, dahlias, nasturtium, begonia, dog flowers you squeezed to make the "dog" bark, nectar at the tip of the stamens you'd pulled out of the pretty ixora, pale white magnolia in the moonlight, bamboo bending.

lawns with thick bladed grass, tea bushes rolling along gently undulating land, tall sparse shade trees, water hyacinth covered puddles and ponds along the way. moths, so many kinds of them. who'd have thought the dour dull moths could bring about such beauty.

of course, i knew muga. the mekhelas in muga with red and black embroidery that everyone seemed to wear. especially during bihu. i didn't know it was a silk. nor that it was a wild silk, and a very rare one at that. i just liked the look of the fabric and the sound of the word. muga, no idea what it meant, but it seemed cool.

muga is made from the larva of a moth that is found only in assam, the assam silkmoth or antharaea assamensis. the assamese word for yellowish is muga. but it's not really yellow, more golden sheen, and deeply molten. for centuries and more, muga has been made in this part of the world. i read somewhere, muga with its natural golden colour, durable and lustrous, has been mentioned in kautilya's arthashastra, even the rig ved.

in 1228, a tai prince from yunnan province in china, came and settled down in the brahmaputra valley. he was accompanied by people from his land; prince sukaphaa established the ahom kingdom. the ahom are the descendants of the tai, often from marriages with local people. the ahom kings loved muga, can't blame them, so the silk became valuable and much cherished; its production grew. my history is not sound, this is straight from the net. what i do know is, assam has a different take on beauty, a deep indigenous aesthetic. one that's rich with the sweetness and texture of its natural surroundings. i look at the motifs, and there are the flowers, the birds, the lions and tigers, sometimes angular and geometric, though languid curves abound as well, little signatures of assam in weave.

in duliajan, where we lived, many of the assamese families had looms in their homes. weaving was an art most women learnt, much like knitting or embroidery. for weddings, births, and even everyday use, mekhelas and sarees would be woven by the women of the household. there is an intimacy with the cloth that is worn around here. maybe nowadays, many don't weave at home any longer, but i'm sure they have carefully kept away pieces that were made for them especially, for an occasion.

muga was never cheap, now it's very expensive. production hasn't grown much and there is demand, both at home and overseas. since 2007, muga silk is protected by geographical identification or gi as it's known; it's officially recognised as belonging to the state of assam. even so, pure muga is hard to find.

muga and tussar are mixed, if you aren't familiar with the fabric, you'd find it difficult to tell the difference. tussar is beautiful too, but it's not muga. it doesn't shine with a natural gold. nor does it last that long. almost thirty-five years ago, my mother bought me a phulia tangail with muga yarn checks on cotton. it was fashionable at the time i think, the rage during that year's durga puja maybe: tangail with muga highlights. i wore the saree the other day, still not frayed, still shimmering. i took the phone very close to capture the shimmer.

really, how come this silk has that natural gold tint?

i have a couple of muga sarees, one of them feels authentic, the other i don't know. at present i'm busy pestering a friend in assam to get me a pure muga mekhela. have taken the madness a step further, planning a trip to assam after almost forty years, have another friend there, a senior officer in the government. she says she'll take us to the right place for muga. wonder if the butterflies are still as colourful in assam, and if there are snakes, and was one of my moths an antharaea assamensis. before i go, the brahmaputra, did you know, is the only male river in our land. my father used to say that.

wrote this on sepember 14, 2017. that trip to assam still pending. this time a pure muga mekhela surely.

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sarees tell stories | muga with orange and black motifs from sampa's boutique, calcutta, around 2006; muga with red and black motifs bought from a friend in 2004; muga and cotton tangail from calcutta, 1982/83.

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Thursday, February 17, 2022

the other blue banarasi

in the middle of may or was it june last year, when a good friend and his wife invited us to their daughter’s wedding in kerala in december, and i said, yes, would love to come, i was fully prepared for an enchanting time in the deep green southern state which has an even deeper affair with red. today, the only state in the country with a communist government.

i would be passing through bengaluru. when i lived there, it was bangalore, and i have no idea why we keep changing names, but well, bengaluru it is. everyone grumbles that the city, where i spent some of my happiest times, is gone: traffic, population, heat, dust, doom and politicians.

i disagree, and as some of my closest friends live there, i planned a stopover on the way to as well as on the way back from kumarakom, where the wedding was to be held in a resort by the backwaters. i do not wish to digress, but watching the colours of an indian wedding unfold against the blues and endless of the backwaters, framed by the aforementioned green, is a religious experience. especially if elevated by genuine welcome and the easy banter of friends who went to school together; the father of the bride was a class mate of mine.

the bride was radiant, she is malayalee and of syrian christian heritage, the groom had a gentle smile, he’s maharashtrian, hindu. the wedding was joyful and fun, parents and families on both sides enthusiastically taking part in customs and traditions, even those that were new to them. i was not embarrassed at all that i’d packed four dressy sarees and a new mekhela sador for the five occasions across two days.

as i mentioned, i was quite sure the trip would be happy and memorable, but i was not prepared for the sarees. i don’t mean the ones i’d taken along.

you never really know what the future holds in store for you, do you. i’m not trying to be randomly and mundanely philosophical here, just going over the circumstances that led to those sarees.

of course, on a visit to bengaluru, i’d rush over to ambara – a nice boutique – right next door to my friend’s place; and there’s always chickpet a short drive away, we spent an illuminating and expensive evening there on my last visit… if you love or even like sarees, don’t give rukmini hall a miss. we casually considered going to kancheepuram this time to gaze at the silks on the loom, but desisted.

i kept thinking: maybe i’ll get one kanjeevaram, or an ilkal… but nothing else. the best laid plans of mice and weak women…

the friend i stayed with on the way to kerala, said she had to take me to taneira, the new saree place opened by titan. the famous tata group, known for steel, cars, technology, finance, hotels, watches… is into sarees now. the mighty shall capitulate before these six yards, it is written.

my friend had some taneira discount coupons… lovely shop, i thought, as i walked in. there were sarees on shelves, on hangers, spread out on tables, sarees everywhere in a series of rooms connected by meandering corridors and staircases. they floated, they sat, they beckoned, they wrapped you in a world of their own… you got lost, there was no need to be found.

i tried to resist. i was valiant. then i spotted a light blue banarasi. i almost stopped breathing when the folds were opened and it was laid out on the table.

i said, no. i was not going to spend madly on the very first day. i could do it. my friend reminded me of the discount. i walked away and fell upon a cotton kota with its eight trademark squares to assuage the pain. it had pretty sanganeri block prints, a saree from rajasthan that was a repository of memories… my aunts, mother, great aunt, they’d wear these airy, light kotas, especially during summer.

my friend watched me as i hurried over to see what lay in the next room. each alcove, space, corner had a different kind of saree on display, from different parts of the country.

the dark pink and purple maheshwari from madhya pradesh caught me unawares.

maharani ahaliyabai holkar… rehwa… gossamer silk… revival by sally holkar… the thoughts wafted and swirled, gold tinted and free.

i have never bought a maheshwari for myself i thought…

my friend giggled and thrust a pale mehendi green chanderi into my hands. i must buy this for you, she said. why, i muttered flummoxed, staring at the see through fine fabric.

she laughed and replied, i’ve never seen anyone so happy in a saree store, it’s like watching a kid in a toy shop… besides, i have the discount.

i went off to kerala with three new sarees in the suitcase.

on the way back, we stopped by at kasavu kada in cochin, well known for their kerala cotton sarees. i bought a white cotton, not the real zari kasavu, just a simple inexpensive one with a thin border in gold and a snazzy purple. it cost around rs 450. why so cheap, i asked. the cotton count is only 80, said the man. it was handloom, it was 100% cotton, people were willing to talk about the count of warp and weft, not give vague answers, felt good.

back in bengaluru, at my second host’s home, a kesa paat from assam awaited. i’d bought it from kohua d’handloom café, a new shop in guwahati; they’d sent it over. the owner is a friend’s cousin, he and i have fascinating chats on whatsapp often about the weavers and textiles of assam. kesa paat or raw silk is diaphanous and a bit stiff, the drape gets better after you wear it a few times, he had said. i’d fallen for the motifs, assamese bootis are unique, mine had tiny goss phool or the tree motif – phool is literally flower, means motif or booti – and large bold triangular patterns on the pallu, in a no nonsense brown and gold. it was even prettier than i’d thought.

i would have left india with these five new sarees, but then the banarasi started spooking me. i had to return to taneira with the second friend. what would i do without my ever patient and indulgent friends. she and i pondered the light blue banarasi. something wasn’t right. the shot effect… the density of bootis… or was it their size? as i wandered, if not lonely as a cloud, quite sad at the thought of letting go, i saw the other blue banarasi.

the folds opened, the classic zari work shone, the stately border, the zari encrusted pallu, the lavish kolkas sitting nawabishly at either end of it, the crafting was sure, you could sense this craft wasn’t perfected in a day, the blue reminded me of aunties at north indian weddings. i, like shetty of good old hindi films, was sold.

i came back from south india with six sarees. a saree from the south, a kerala cotton, not kanjeevaram this time. a saree from the east, the kesa paat from assam. a saree from the west, the kota from rajashthan. a saree from the north, the blue banarasi. and two sarees from the centre of the country, madhya pradesh: the maheshwari and the chanderi.

when i realised this, i knew i had to write. this was not planned. the best moments in life i guess rarely are.

errant thought: perhaps there’ll be an invite soon, and that over dressed aunty at an indian wedding.

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sarees tell stories | mehendi green chanderi, deep pink maheshwari, sanganeri print kota, blue banarasi from taneira, bengaluru; kerala cotton with purple border from kasavu kada, cochin; off white kesa paat from kohua d’handloom cafe, guwahati; all sarees bought in december 2018.

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Monday, February 14, 2022

banarasis are good for you : the friday saree

years ago, i fell for the guinness tagline that went, guinness is good for you. i suspect i drink guinness more on account of that line than the taste of the heavy dark stout itself.

guinness is good for you was written in the 1920s when Guinness started advertising for the first time. i'd heard once, in the '70s or '80s an enormous amount of money, effort, and time were spent to change that line, come up with something new. . creatives thought and thought, then went away to far off isles to think some more, free float, brainstorm, crack the big idea. and after all that, they came back with... well, guinness is good for you. and so, the line remained.

i can't substantiate that story, but i just found out that james joyce had suggested changing the line with a slogan of his own, "guinness – the free, the flow, the frothy freshener." but thankfully, that was not accepted. it remained, guinness is good for you.

the best ideas are like that. simple, almost minus any adornment, undeniable.

which reminds me of a conversation i had the other day about these beautiul sarees called banarasis; benaroshi, if you're bengali.

banarasis are handloom sarees from the ancient city of varanasi or benares, with their trademark and fabulous zaree work. they are usually in silk, but you do have fine cotton banarasis too.

beautiful as they are, they have posed a persisting problem for their owners and wearers.

which is, where do you wear a banarasi?

the sarees are inextricably linked to weddings and celebrations. the ;et's overdress moments in our world. the endless occasions that weddings present, special anniversaries, ceremonies for mothers to be, your offspring's rice ceremony or whatever is the special ritual for children in a community. banarasis also find a place in religious festivals like diwali, durga pujo, eid. but mainly, it's weddings.

if you want to wear a banarasi, there has to be an occasion. you just can't wear a banarasi otherwise, seems to be the inherited wisdom of saree wearers everywhere.

you dress up in your lovely blue banarasi with big angoor or grape motifs to a cousin's mehendi. your own wedding banarasi you have worn only once after your marriage, to your brother's wedding. at your friend's sangeet, your sweet but careless aunty dropped food on your pale pink banarasi with silver zaree that your mother had worn for her gode bharai ceremony before you were born.

"i have so many beautiful banarasis, but no occasion to wear them," how many times have i heard that? or, "i know the mauve tissue banarasi is gorgeous, but no, i'll buy this kanjeevaram without zaree, more wearable." or even, "oh, banarasis are too much, too jhatak matak, who wears zaree these days," i feel a bit shaken by that.

when i started buying sarees again, banarasis began to demand and get my attention pretty quickly. my mother was born in benaras or kashi, was that some sort of subliminal tug? i've actually always been dazzled by banarasis. my mother had many of them, from her wedding brocade to these really cool ones in solid glimmering shades – emerald, crimson, ivory – with narrow finely worked borders in contrasting shades. i've worn most of them, always for an occasion of course.

but how do you get the banarasi out of the occasion into the everyday world?

that was the question a girl who loved sarees, – whom i'd just met – and i were pondering a couple of sundays ago. she said, she felt one should simply stop needing a big occasion to wear them.

instead, just wear them whenever one felt like it. as you would wear all other nice sarees.

to visit people, for small dinners, when you had people over. treat the banarasi like any other beautiful saree. and wear it. not keep your banarasis in muslin and mothballs forever, waiting longingly for that one mega wedding or whatever, when you can at last let them come out and breathe.

i laughed.

and i heard something in me say, why not?

we'd invited them for shabbat dinner next week. she said, she'd wear one of her banarasis. and she instructed me, practically, to wear the red brocade banarasi i'd mentioned, a replica of my mother's wedding saree.

it felt like a pact. a solemn giving of word to each other which would lead to greater things some day. it definitely felt heady, like a large swig of dark smooth guinness.

after much thought, i chose a blue green shot jongla or jangla (from jungle) banarasi.

when she walked in, we both stopped in our tracks and started smiling, quite incredulous. her husband exclaimed, "you're wearing identical sarees!"

wasn't exactly the same, but hers had an all over jaal or pattern too, with similar motifs, and the colours were close. it was a classic banarasi from her wedding trousseau. mine had been acquired more recently, for our anniversary a couple of years ago.

she had also worn her saree differently, twisting and pleating the yards of silk deftly, as as she pleased. the sheen of a tightly drawn black belt over the pallu and around the waist firmly brought the traditional jangla to the here and this moment.

we spent a happy friday evening together, not being self conscious at all about all the gold and silk. it felt just right. even the men, dressed casually, seemed to like that little high in the air. a refreshing note to a quiet dinner.

i wished i were tall and slender so i could throw my saree about in that carefree swirl. we posed and took shots. banarasis stepped out of weddings and breathed more freely.

a big idea i felt, had been cracked. just wear your banarasi.

i've never read joyce, but a moment ago considered swiping his "the free, the flow, the frothy freshener" tagline.

but no.

i'll go with...

banarasis are good for you.


bought the jangla from tilfi in december, 2020. it was an anniversary gift from my husband. this picture was taken on our anniversary, the first time i wore the saree. thoroughly enjoyed donning a jangla, lifted the covid gloom. we went to a bar afterwards. no big celebration naturally, this is the wild spread of coronavirus time. the photograph is taken by ferolyn, she's our cook and my main consultant on sarees. she's caught the blue green colour play in this one, so am posting here.

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