What's In A Sari?

What’s in the origami of the nauvari versus nivi, the kodagu and the kacche, each with its rules of geometry, movement and confinement?

In the classical poise of Raja Ravi Varma's indelible, always-pleasant women with their yellow-orange fruit and the swans and the sitars, images oft-repeated and interpreted, thus omnipresent.

In the ghostly weft patterns on a Jamdani weave that quietly rise to the surface like cream on milk and go “boo”, or the rich Benarasi brocade of your grandmother's wedding portrait, where the zari refuses to be cowed in the sepia photograph taken in the photographer's studio where she sits coy, kohl-eyed and a little perplexed?

In the starched sky-blue taanth sari the ends of which those two women are wrestling with before they drape it on the three plastic chairs on the terrace, a pretty useless (albeit pretty) tent, next to the jars of aavakai enjoying their own spot under the sun. 

What’s in the borrowed, overtucked, safety-pinned, messy saris of giggling, stumbling 13-year-olds at Saraswati Puja in Kolkata?

In the anticipation of pattu-pavadai-clad teens in Madurai during Pongal. 

What’s in the cook's now-fixed green-and-turquoise georgette saree that she had lifted and tucked into her waist with her thumb before she went about making your favourite Chicken-65?

In the windows of light on a pale-pink kota sari, or the light entrapped on the muniya motif of a teal Venkatgiri weave that refuses to dissipate.

In the frothy oomph a Chantilly lace sari paired with one – just one –- fiery emerald ring. 

In the myriad stories narrated on a Baluchari from the east and those told of the Patan Patola from the west. 

What’s in the glitch-like zig-zags of the Sambalpuri and Nuapatna saris of Odisha, ikat cousins of the Pochampally?

In the white satin fabric taken to the dyer so it takes on the exact shade of champagne-with-a-hint-of-rose-and-a-dusting-of-gold that marks your ghostly organza sari with the print of Baby’s Breath. 

In the stiff-as-cardboard Bengal cotton saree from Tantuja that came rolled like the Sunday paper thrown over the gate, the sari since been soaked in the tub once, twice, thrice, so the water turns cloudy and starchy and it drapes you and doesn’t frame you. 

What’s in the pinned, starched cotton saris of our mothers, then 26, with their first-salary HMT watches and their Raleigh bicycles, pedaling to work and back, or chasing after a bus? 

In our ammmamas’, didas’, and dadis’ second-skin cotton saris that they could drape standing on the glistening-wet bathroom floor. Shy. Showoffs. 

In our mom’s saris, “borrowed” long ago, the ones we wear with our Cartier ‘Tanks’ and Apple watches, Kolhapuris and Jimmy Choos, All-Stars and Doc Martens, on convocations, weddings, other “Indian thingies” and in-betweens.

In the twirling, crazy, ether-like flying chiffons and georgettes of the Garden Vareli ad that gave us — and Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan — Lisa Ray.

In the pinned pleats of the Air India women — no-nonsense, perfect, please-wear-your-seatbelt.

What’s in the liquid gold of a one-of-a-kind Kanjivaram, wrapping you like you’re a gift?

In the hitched, neat, tucked cottons of the Kalakshetra students as they perfect their samapadams.

In the fan-pleated Kanjivaram of the Bharatnatyam dancer with the dancing eyes as she takes the stage during Margazhi. 

In the unwavering uniforms of our History, Math and Geography teachers at school, our lives’ first idols.

In the breeze-woven chiffons of Rekha, Sri Devi, Madhuri, Raveena. The moon-drenched whites and the dripping “tip-tip” yellows. 

In the cream-and-gold of a Kerala kasavu and the riotous, frowning dots of a Rajasthani bandhej.

In Rimzim Dadu's sculpted pallu that could be at home at Basel.

In the rich emerald and fuchsia Raw Mango silk Chanderis that glimmer in the desert like a happy mirage. 

In the joie de vivre of the Suta girls who look all set to run marathons (or the world) in their "made in heaven" muls with their pre-stitched falls. 

In that applique-leaf monochrome Abraham & Thakore drape on a white shirt on that editor at the corner table at Wasabi, the DND sign invisible yet flashing bright. 

In the earthy glamour of a linen Anavila made for PowerPoint days and also Alt-J Saturdays.

In the 431-88 'Godet' stitched sari on one of the 30-somethings at the bar, on their fourth G&Ts, the night stretching endlessly before them, where much could unravel but not the aforementioned sari.  

What's in a sari, whose wearing itself demands that your fingers dance? Everything.