peculiarly light and airy feeling as i throw the chanderi on the bed and
place a black silk blouse on it. black and white, no… black and off
white. creases and crush as nothing is ironed. so what though, still
looks rather wonderful.
it’s been a fuzzy headed morning. not enough sleep, and now two
consecutive days of dressing up. i know since i started a whole blog on
sarees and plaster it with my shots in sarees, one might be forgiven for
thinking i love decking up.
i do. but only once in a while. say once a month. two days in a row, my brain is longing for grunge.
but the off white chanderi calls. it seems to know my state of mind.
“what blouse?” i mutter to myself. “why not black,” says the chanderi.
“no, not the one with zardosi neckline. just plain black.”
i’d worn my mother’s pearl necklace last night. that and its matching
earrings were the only jewellery my mother kept with herself. she’d wear
them once in a way if there was a dinner party or even a wedding in
assam, where we lived in a tiny oil township called duliajan when i was
growing up. the rest of her jewellery remained in a locker in calcutta,
for family weddings she’d take out a couple of things at times.
otherwise, the bank of india vault by deshapriya park kept all the
glitter embraced in its cold steel heart.
the pearls with their kundan ornaments, the brightness of my mother
touches me when i slip the necklace on. maybe i’ll wear it again today. and just plain pearl bangles, made when i got married nearly forty years
ago, with pearls my grandmother had kept for many years.
“what say?” i ask the gauzy one.
“not bad,” comes the nod from the chanderi, along with a golden wink. is it acquiring a singaporean tone? how wannabe, it’s just arrived here.
i see i started with "peculiarly". my mother used to say "peculiar" often... i can almost see her looking at me writing this and murmuring it with that glint in her eyes.
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.
wrote this on january 3, 2019 and posted on our magazine writersbrew.com
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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.
social distancing. what a funny sounding coinage. no music in it, no vibe, almost cloddish. yet, it will perhaps save the human race.
it's strange to write that last sentence without there being a trace of exaggeration in it.
anyway, what do you do when it's all about social undistancing? when it's time to gather, to celebrate, to come close? time to bring to mind again events and forces that in fact helped create human societies, established the need for bonding, for being together, for trusting each other? time for apple jam?
this year rosh hashanah, the jewish new year, fell on 18th to 20th of september, and we were eight months and more deep in the covid world.
there would be no rosh hashanah gatherings of family and friends around large tables with extra chairs crushing against each other to accommodate everyone, platters of festive food spilling over, and blessings being said with much gusto and joy over dates, long beans, chives, pumpkin, apple jam, pomegranates, and more.
the sweet challah bread of new year that would be dipped in honey instead of salt, would not be passed around to the twenty, thirty, fifty people in the room.
this year, in singapore, we are allowed to have only five guests.
we had a quiet rosh hashanah at home, just the four of us. i am not too good with crowds and big parties, so a part of me must have been quite happy, and yet, i missed the voices and the feeling of people around me.
so and so would have shouted out that word during the saying of this prayer. such and such would have guffawed loudly when that was said. the children would rush and queue up for the food, the adults would feign patience. for the nth time the same tale would be told and we'd laugh.
laugh we did even this year, and tried to bridge the distance in our minds. the apple jam turned out perfect, a beautiful recipe from a lady i'll never forget. the honey cake was a bit dry but tasty, our first try. i decided i had to make something new and truly iraqi jewish, so kubbah was attempted. the dumplings of semolina and rice flour with chicken mince stuffing were a little hard, but the three other people at the table seemed not to care.
like every year, i spent a lot of time pondering the sarees i'd wear on the first and second nights of rosh hashanah.
i chose a filmy and buoyant lime green chanderi for the first night, which i'd found thanks to social media (another strange coinage), namely whatsapp, at ayaz bhai's shop in the town of chanderi in madhya pradesh.
chanderi, with that zingy happy sound, was an important town in the trade routes spreading across india and beyond in the 11th century, and so wealth grew here, and weaving flourished, this typical gauzy fine fabric... now you see it now you don't. beauty.
on the second night, i'd wear a heavily embroidered black saree made by sarbari dutta, the well known designer, a dear friend of my aunt and uncle's. starting out in her late forties, she brought life and
colour and artistry and fun to men's dressing. particularly to the traditional indian look for men which hadn't changed in centuries. embroidered peacocks
strutted about dhotis, kurtas were embellished with chain stitched
egyptians, minute kañtha work made a staid jacket striking. the black dhoti made an entry. who said dhotis had to be white?
black, she had said, when i requested her to make another saree for me. she had still not started doing women's fashion commercially, an exception for her friends and their saree mad nieces.
for all the embroidery work, she drew the motifs and stories by hand, each one, right onto the fabric. skilled artisnas would then do the needle work on the drawings. sarbari dutta passed away suddenly a couple of days before rosh hashanah. i wanted to remember her. the saree fell svelte and confident as i wore it.
an ancient unstitched garment and time honoured traditions, they both wrap memories in their fold... and surely even the secrets of making society, of living as humans on this planet, of surviving.
strange i should think so, for i've never been a great one for traditions, always a little impatient with rituals and customs. the new, what's to come, beckon me.
but as i took a bite of the syrup-coated apple and the aroma of cardamom got really socially undistanced with my nose, as i felt the lightness of a flippant lime chanderi about me, as we said may our enemies be decimated and may our good deeds be as plentiful as the seeds of a pomegranate, maybe i felt we'll get through this, cloddish coinage notwithstanding.
wrote this on september 30, 2020.
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sarees tell stories| lime green chanderi from ayaz ansari, facebook page handloom karigar, 2020. black bishnupuri silk by sarbari, around 2009.
he loved vintage cars. every morning, practically, he'd come to look at his collection, which used to be kept in a garage built on land rented from my family. he always wore pristine, brilliant white pajamas and a flowing crisp kurta, his hair would be neatly brushed and the most pleasant smile would appear on his face if he happened to spot you or any of your elders.
"namashkar!" he'd greet in a low amicable tone, as he raised his hands high before him, palms joined. he'd let you go up close to his cars, even touch a shiny collectible surface if you wished to. he let some of us sit in one of his priceless automobiles once. he was the best tenant one could have and the most polite and decent man.
given the ironies of life, it really shouldn't have surprised anyone when he turned out to be not quite the man you thought he was. but all that came later.
much after his wife and he had gifted me my first chanderi saree. it was for my wedding and they'd chosen well. on a base of deep purple – it had a tinge of mocha brown in it – sat delicately woven dull gold motifs and an elegant restrained border in the same matte gold zari. the fabric was of the finest quality.
that perfect gossamer of chanderi, the wafting gauziness of it all... almost like a dream the fall. like a veil through which you look at memory.
i fussed endlessly about wearing the saree, even though i loved it. but when would i ever be thin enough to feel confident in a material so sheer? the struggle went on, the weight stayed put. i think i finally surrendered to temptation and wore the saree once, maybe twice. in time, it frayed and i had to let it go.
but a chanderi that belonged to my grandmother i couldn't throw away, even when it was in shreds. its pink is bright and playful, the contrasting blue border highlights the character of the main colour. intricate motifs in zari and a darker shade of pink traipse across the saree, its solid gold border shimmers.
as it tore in my hands, a world seemed to shift out of focus. i kept the borders, bits of the pink at the edges. some day, i think, some day, i'll go to chanderi and get someone to make a saree like that for me.
for centuries, possibly beginning in the eleventh – or who knows, maybe even earlier... or later – this delightful fabric of cotton and zari, and later silk, has been woven in the town of chanderi.
picture courtesy uploader
situated between malwa and bundelkhand in central india, chanderi was part of the trade routes and became an important military outpost. it was fought over and ruled by many kings and conquerors. babur, allaudin khilji, and the rajputs, among them.
it's mentioned in ibn batuta's travelogues, he went there in 1342, apparently. wonder if he wrote about the weavers and their fine product?
the lightweight cotton with its sheer transparency always startles me.
something about its texture.
hold it up and look through, a maze of patterns form on the threads, an optical illusion created by weave and play of light on it perhaps. and though chanderi was traditionally made with cotton only, it's never bothered to look anything but luxurious.
am talking of the real ones, not the fakes that have overtaken the market. there are a few designers and also shops like fabindia, that are getting quite serious about reviving and keeping alive the looms of chanderi. maybe fakes have their uses...
and now that i think, had the man in white been a good guy all the way, something would have certainly gone missing from my recollections of chanderi. when the twist in that tale came and he behaved in a way no one could have imagined, i raved and ranted, but i kept the saree.
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sarees tell stories| yellow chanderi from touch of class paithani, grey and silver chanderi from an exhibition in singapore, both bought in 2014.
