Before moving to India a few years ago, my encounters with saris were short-lived. For years, I wondered how the layers of draped fabric carried such magic; the powerful silhouette that it created left me in awe.
Then, when gifted a lilac colored silk by my aunt in Turkey, purchased during her trip to India, I was in disbelief at finally owning a sari. My mother, a woman well versed in couture, could turn any fabric into a glam piece for any occasion; back then, the occasion was my high school graduation party. I remember unfolding the fabric, trying to understand where it began and ended, to figure out a way to fashion it into a graduation dress. As the pallu was unveiled, we all sighed in appreciation. At that moment, it dawned on me where the Turkish saying “bulunmaz Hint kumasi” (rare Indian fabric) came from. The term is really used for people who value themselves highly and air arrogance and vibes of superiority “… her nose is in the air, and she thinks she is rare Indian fabric…” well, that shine of brocade on the pallu certainly spoke of entitlement
We decided not to chop the sari and keep it for another occasion. That occasion never arrived, and the lilac beauty stayed in a pretty box at my mother’s home, slightly neglected but always respected.
The second encounter was when I boarded a plane to Delhi for my honeymoon. I had some locations in my agenda, such as Nalli’s, Kamala, Khan Market, Ogaan at Santoshti and more. On day one, venturing into Nalli’s sari store in Delhi was a sensual experience, with plentiful colours, textures, variant smells of dye, and the old wood of the store which added to the scent of handlooms.
After an hour or so, when I picked the fourth sari, a festive, light-weight pistachio green and bright pink silk , I caught myself looking at my husband like a child in need of containment. Those were the days neither Paithani nor Kanjeevaram were part of my vocabulary. I was mostly driven by colour and touch of material, yet to find out about the stories of different regional looms.
The real showdown was to happen when we finally moved to Chennai, three years ago. The heat made me feel like a misfit in jeans, tight clothing, and scanty styles too vulnerable to the sun. I quickly stepped into the expat newbie’s safe bet, the salwar kameez , which made me realise how little fabric is utilised in the making of western attire. As I have always been a great fan of scarves meeting its ubsersized sister, the dupatta, was thrilling.
Soon, my body started developing a different awareness for a wide range of textiles. Each kind of cotton had a different touch. Every fabric proved its own magic by creating a distinct silhouette as well as an ecosystem around the body.
Listening to stories of saris inherited through generations, finding out about the relationship of women to their saris, recognising the sensitivities for certain occasions made me realise how the sari has a language of itself. Realising that brocade, cotton or sheer fabrics all would require tweaking to look flattering, my need to become independent in draping was increased.
I joined a workshop with Himanshu Verma, “The Sari Man”, and all my notions about draping a sari crashed. Rehearsing Gujarati, Bengali, and the dhoti sari draping was an exercise in digging into layers of tradition, and seeing what they meant for one’s expression of self. Himanshu’s out-of-the-box styling not only transcended boundaries at the gender level, but also opened the door for me to have an “I and Thou” moment with the fabric.
When I look around, I see women carrying a piece of art on themselves. If there’s such a thing as transcending art into life, the sari seems like a perfect canvas and I could not possibly have missed the chance while living in India. Finally, I have found my way into the world of saris and am able to pinpoint why I became so enamored with this fabric, that is always agreeing to take my body’s shape and size, allowing me to express, conceal and reveal myself in my own way.
The writer is an American psychologist and currently a research scholar at VIT, Chennai.
