saree aunty

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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photos credit ferolyn fernandez

Wednesday, February 9, 2022

it was black this friday : the friday saree

how many sarees do you have? what, you're buying more sarees? where will you where them? you've got to stop buying sarees you know...

has anyone told you such things? familiar, these words?

well, i don't blame well meaning friends and harried husband speaking their minds.

but really.

i don't have to wear sarees to love them. or... do i?

how it happened i can't exactly trace but somewhere along the way, the saree got so left out from the idea of dressing up.

i've never not liked or loved sarees, though it never became my daily dress as it was for my mother and grandmothers. yet for occasions, for special anything, i'd wear a saree. in fact, i'd wear a saree to work when i was twenty one, battling crowded buses, pothole filled roads, the heat and dust and grime of calcutta.

and yet, i lost touch with sarees. the need to wear them waned.

about twenty years ago, it all came surging back, happily.

but where would i wear sarees, here in singapore? okay, sometimes to work maybe. and then? wait for occasions? would the twenty new sarees in my cupboard be able to hold their drama till then?

then it struck me.

i have an occasion every week. in my own home.

shabbat.

my husband and daughter are jewish. along with my brother in law, we observe shabbat every friday evening at home. we all get together and have shabbat dinner. good food is made, alcohol imbibed, we chat and relax, bread is broken, wine blessed, prayers and song fill the evening, plates are filled and emptied, the evening flows by.

shabbat, which means seven in hebrew, is a day to be set aside from the rest of the week. it is a sacred day, the day when after creating everything, god rested. wonderful, i thought, as i pondered this. my way of marking this day... i'll wear a saree every friday.

it's perhaps one of the best thoughts i've ever had. i am grinning as i write that.

this friday, february 4, 2022, i wore a fabulously embroidered black silk from bishnupur in west bengal. it's designed by the tremendously talented sharbari dutta. sadly, she passed away suddenly a couple of years ago. she had made this saree for me, as she knows my uncle and aunt and also about my love of sarees. usually, she designed men's clothes only, for she felt not enough had been done in that area in the context of indian fashion.

every motif on that saree is drawn by her. the chain stitch is fine and detailed. the colours are balanced and surprising... that sudden violet. there's a playful note in the execution.

a saree i've worn many times and it has never failed to delight.

the last time i wore this saree,

it was new year in the jewish calendar.

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i had to wear a saree today

my photos credit ferolyn fernandez

Tuesday, February 8, 2022

if it's gleaming like that, it must be a gadwal.

gadwal. when i was too young to know anything about sarees other than all women – yes, it was practically all the women i knew or saw around me – wore them, that word always intrigued me.

spending a lot of time in delhi while growing up, i was aware of garhwal, near the himalaya mountains in the north, a hilly place with lots of nice small towns and warmhearted people... many of whom came to delhi in search of work.

did my mother mean that place when she called her saree a gadwal? were these pretty sarees from there? so why did she pronounce the name in that funny way?

gadwal. with the soft flat d / द sound.

not garhwal. with the rolling d / ढ़ sound which you don't have in the english soundscape at all.

she had a really pretty one, sea green cotton body with a dark purple magenta border, its zaree catching light. i'd hear my aunts and mother's friends talk about someone or the other's beautiful gadwal. the combination was of particular interest, it had to be unusual even unorthodox but not amateurish.

you had to get the colours right.

it was much later that i discovered that the source of these happy discussions was indeed a place called gadwal.

just shy of two hundred kilometres from hyderabad, is the town of gadwal. lying somewhere between two rivers i have only heard of and never seen, tungabhadra and krishna, gadwal is part of the jogulamba gadwal district in telengana now.

oh, to be born by the tungabhadra... krishna flowing on the other side.

i mean, those river names sound so pretty, how can they possibly not have beauty scattered around them. i know i am getting carried away.

ok, back to the prosaic. a few hundred years ago, in the 1700s if my research is right, a kingdom called gadwal samasthanam flourished here, vassal state of the powerful nizams of hyderabad.

the queen, maharani adhi lakshmi devamma, is said to have inspired the craft of gadwal sarees. she had weavers brought in from coastal regions and the "jari chiralu" were devised. "chiralu" is telugu for sarees, "chira" is saree. "jari", i am guessing, refers to zaree or gold and silver coated thread. gadwals used to be called "mathiampeta" once, but in time it acquired the name of the town where the looms brought it into being.

curiously, the queen didn't go for an all silk saree. she could no doubt afford it, if one is to go by the fancy fort and temples built in her time. usually, when royalty is involved with garment, it's all about silk. yet, i murmur to myself, there are exceptions. the dhakai jamdani, but that was in ethereal muslin. the paithani, also originally of cotton body. the kanjeevaram... yes, yes, became synonymous with silk much later.

still, intrigued me this choosing of cotton with silk edges by the queen, at a time of nizams and durbars, as foreign powers vied for influence and courts flaunted their riches. could it be because it was too hot to be wearing silk in that arid deccan land? or was it because this was cotton growing country and great hand spun cotton yarn was readily available? and because it fed the farmer, the yarn maker, the weaver even while pleasing the queen?

from the cotton fields of telengana, images courtesy uploader. a friend tells me, "the loose cotton from plants is called patti (t soft), when it is woven into a cloth, it is simply called kaatan."

gadwals traditionally have pure, fine cotton bodies with rich silk borders and pallu. that is their most distinctive mark. and the curious deep gleam of the zaree, yes that.

i particularly noticed this when i went looking for my gadwals the other day. it was day time but the light was low. i slid open the wardrobe panel and scanned the shelves of cottons, couldn't spot any of my gadwals. a little frantic, i stood on my toes to peer at the shelf above. and there among a stack of cottons, something called out... a steady secure gleam.

i knew even before i went to pull it out what saree it was.

really, how do you do that? i wanted to ask the saree.

it was a white one with purple border and pallu that i'd bought for my mother's sixtieth birthday many years ago. a calming breeze drifted by, everything settled down.

the lustre of subtle, poised zaree catches and stores memory perhaps.

things change, gadwals are made in only silk also nowadays. those two similar looking greenish yellow and green and yellow checked ones are in silk. so is the grey one.

but the contrast border story is still intact. as is a hint of delighting zaree somewhere, even if not on the entire border. the brocaded motifs come from nature and local architecture mostly. specific and intricate weaving techniques are in use. the borders and pallu are woven separately and attached to the body in the "kuttu" tradition. of course, gadwal now has a gi or geographical indication. only gadwals from this terroir (yes, a saree has that) are considered authentic. 1930s they say were good years for gadwal.

i had a lovely encounter with one of my gadwals the other day, and as i write i am beginning to think it's time i looked for a new one... maybe in orange? with an off beat contrast? what say?

more gadwal rambles

a tale of two sarees

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sarees tell stories | cotton gadwals from kolkata, mumbai, hyderabad, bought over the years. yellow and checked silk gadwal silks from abhihaara social enterprise, hyderabad, bought 2020. you can find them on instagram @abhihaara


telengana, the home of gadwal sarees. map courtesy uploader.

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