Sari state

I was at a wedding with my father the other night and had more trouble with my clothes than I have ever had in my whole life, that famous time where my buttons kept popping open notwithstanding. (That story later in this blog, I promise.) It was a Sunday evening and the outing had been planned for some days. It was a must-do, social obligation and all that good stuff. So, in spite of stinkingly bad colds and coughs, something decent to watch on television (which has to be the lamest excuse ever!) and little inclination to dress up, put on makeup and heels and go out for dinner long after dinner is usually done and dusted in our house, we did just that. Father was natty in his silk kurta, while I did my best to look grown up and dignified in a flame-orange and gold silk sari.

The sari was one we had bought many, many years earlier, for a stage performance of some classical dance creation in which I was playing a reluctant role, mercifully fairly minor. It had been folded and stitched up and then unstitched and ironed out, with the requisite amount of sweat and swearing. So it had been through the wars, in a manner of speaking, and certainly deserved to be retired. We had bought it at a popular sari store in South Bombay (should I say ‘Mumbai’ and be politically correct, or ‘Bombay’ and be happy?) that was known for its annual sales that were so crowded with wall-to-wall women that neither my mother nor I ever had the courage to venture within. When we went, we had the shop practically all to ourselves and the salesman had outdone himself in the oiliness department. We bought this one as being most stage worthy and innocuous as far as glitter was concerned, a sari that could be worn later on a more normal occasion like a wedding or a concert. It had the shine the stage demanded, but not the vulgarity and showiness that we disliked. And after that one use, it had stayed in my mother’s closet for an unaccountably long time.

But this particular wedding needed a touch more obvious glitz than my usual lack of it. So I planned long ahead of time, checked the saris for the right one, found it, tried on the blouse and had it altered to fit my ever changing shape and believed I was all set and ready to get dressed for the day…evening. Somewhere along the way, both my father (who is very savvy about these things, having had two women in his family to watch and deal with) and I forgot one important aspect of the whole thing – to check the sari. In blissful ignorance, the interval between discovery and use soon passed. It was time to get ready. My jewellery was set out, my makeup was put on, my heels were tested and the cat was soothed. Now to get dressed.

The blouse fit nicely, the petticoat was perfect. I unfolded the nicely ironed sari and started winding it around me. Tucking in the bits and pieces, I pulled gently to level it at the floor. There was an ominous ripping sound and I felt a tiny tear develop in the wideness of the border that was wrapped around my waist. Oops, I thought to myself, now that will need darning. And paid no more attention to it. But gradually, as the evening wound on, more of the heavy gold border started shredding. Ever so gently, ever so silently (or else there was too much noise at the venue for me to hear anything. Which was a good thing, since no one else could hear it either!), I was developing an avant garde drape that could have been outré a couple of years ago, straight off the Paris runways. Mercifully, there was enough fabric for me to manage to hide every tear that I could see. What I could not find, I did not worry about, I had enough to make my sartorial senses go into a paranoid tizzy.

That sari is now history. Tragically, the silk of the body is fine…or is it? So fate and fashion will take the length of fabric in hand and help me create something wearable from the flame-orange yardage, which is really all that can remain after that particular disaster. But that, too, will need to be carefully checked before it is planned for. Another fashion flop will undo me, literally!

(PS: Some years ago I was at a Miss India show wearing a lovely cream tussar kurta haute from the studio of a reputed designer. Every few minutes, the buttons would pop free of their tiny silk loops and leave various bits of me intriguingly almost on display. Luckily a friend was on ‘button watch’ for me and managed to preserve what was left of my modesty. The outfit has not been worn since, but has had its button-blooper repaired.)