If Renuka’s work had elicited exuberant praise, then Devika’s work drew thoughtful silence – for each piece was subtle as it was beautiful. And when Punsala expressed fear of soiling the work with her dirty hands, Devika protested, ‘What is the use of beautiful things if they cannot be touched? They must be practical, not just beautiful!’
‘Mistress Devika has just expounded the key principles of saree making. There is no point creating a beautiful saree if it cannot be touched or handled – indeed, it is a garment that needs to be handled,’ Guru Sindhu said with a grave little smile. ‘And Guru Hirantha will be pleased to have you in his class, Devika. I think you just may be skilled enough to take on kalamkari – an ancient saree painting technique. Each saree is made in seventeen steps and its trademark glossiness comes from being soaked in milk and resin.’
‘Guru, I don’t think I belong here . . .’ Rangana stammered uneasily. ‘I don’t even know why they asked me to come,’ the young man said, rising to leave.
‘Why, puthay? What talent do you possess?’
‘None. My old dance master knew someone here and he got me the job.’
‘Ah! I know about you. You were the dancer who got injured in the Kandy Perehera festival last year. Puthay, have your injuries healed?’
‘Yes . . .’ Rangana replied, looking away. ‘I am healed, but . . .’
‘But you can still dance, yes?’
‘Of course!’
‘If you could show us but a few steps?’
‘I won’t dance to amuse some silly girls!’ Rangana roared as everybody leapt back in surprise.
‘I don’t see any silly girls here,’ the guru said.
‘These girls are silly. You’ve got Miss Queen there with her batik, another who likes to pull strings, and a third who likes to paint on cloth! All silly girls!’
‘Not silly girls, talented girls.’
‘I don’t see anything creative – they are just mimicking what they’ve seen. There is not a single original thought in any of their kohu heads!’
‘Each of us starts by copying, Rangana. You copy the masters until you yourself are masterful.’
‘I am a master! A master of my craft!’
‘Show me, then,’ the guru said curtly, turning away to give a sharp clap. ‘Show me that you are a master of something! Because right now you are behaving like an arrogant fool.’ The guru clapped again, his back to the dancer, and kept clapping, with a sharp staccato beat. A goading beat.
With a grimace, Rangana took off his shirt and firmly retied his blue sarong around his lean hips. Nila had to smother a gasp of horror at the sight of his mangled body. The scars that covered the right side of his face extended to his torso and arms; tortured skin and flesh showed up black where the rivers of hot oil had gouged their path downwards. He’d had an accident with flares dipped in oil, which had meant to be the centre piece of the pageant.
Rangana moved fluidly into first position as the guru turned around, his outstretched arms forming a perfect arch; then, as the guru kept clapping, he moved into second position, then third, his dancer’s body moving sinuously to the beat, not stopping till he reached the final position, the eighteenth, and finished gracefully, his chin jutting out arrogantly.
‘There is very little difference between a dancer and a weaver . . . the movements need the same grace and versatility,’ the guru said. ‘It requires the same dedication, puthay . . . And practice!’
Rangana nodded curtly and looked away.
‘And now, quickly, to the final member of our group, before I send you to see Guru Lakshmi . . . your name is Nila, is that right, puthay?’
To say that Nila was intimidated would be a lie – she was terrified. She could never make anything to match the beauty of Devika and Renuka’s work – or Rangana’s dance. She pulled out Rupani’s layette that she’d embroidered over the weekend and steeled her heart for the smirks of derision.
‘Guru Sindhu! Guru Sindhu! I am so sorry!’ Guru Lakshmi said loudly, bustling into the room. ‘I have to finish a commission today, so I need to start my class a little early. Can you please send the group through?’
Renuka cast a single dismissive glance at Nila’s work before following Guru Lakshmi through the door. Punsala looked torn but followed Renuka. Rangana stood a little aside to stretch his scorched muscles. Only Devika waited with Nila to hear what Guru Sindhu had to say.
He took the saree and held it up to the light, turning it this way and that, smiling at the delicate hand embroidery and the ribbon detailing Nila had used to hide the discolouration. As he inspected the fall of the saree, feeling the weight of the decoration used to create the dramatic floral motif, his face broke out into a beatific smile of joy.
‘Puthay, did you do this by yourself?’
Nila blinked.
‘Are your parents Saliyas?’
Nila was confused. What was a Saliya?
‘Guru Sindhu – please send the rest of the group through,’ Guru Lakshmi called irritably.
‘Just a minute! Nila, do you know where this cloth comes from?’
‘It was an old cloth that has been in the family for many years.’
‘This is from the Bombay cotton mills – it is impossible to find such fine cotton today. Most of the mills were dismantled after Independence.’
‘Guru Sindhu – I am waiting!’
Rangana slipped his shirt back on and hurried out of the room.
‘Now tell me, who taught you how to—’
‘Guru Sindhu, I really can’t wait any longer!’
Guru Sindhu let out a sigh of exasperation. ‘We’ll chat later. Go, puthay, go,’ he said, hastening them out the door.
If Guru Sindhu had been full of praise, Guru Lakshmi was utterly dour. ‘What is the point of looking at any work that has not been properly designed,’ she grunted, not even deigning to look at the students’ proffered samples.
‘Flow and structure,’ she told them. ‘You have to define what you want your saree to do before you even start thinking about fabric, colour, embroidery or any such silliness! And practise. You must practise designing to be any good at it. Flow and structure, flow and structure.’
The third and final class for the morning had been with Guru Hirantha, the jolly dye master. He explained the colour wheel and took everyone through the basics of dyeing, including the history and sources of the dyes used at the mill.
He smiled and inclined his head towards Nila with respect when he inspected her work, but he was effusive in his praise of Renuka’s batik, marvelling at her skill. ‘Oh – we are going to have fabulous fun, Mistress Renuka, you and I, yes we are! To have someone else interested in dyeing – this will be fun!’ he giggled.
Miss Gauri made an appearance again at lunch to discuss their sleeping arrangements and allocate them to rooms at the large boarding house next door.
‘But I wasn’t planning on boarding,’ Nila said to Devika in horror as Miss Gauri handed out room numbers. ‘I didn’t even know you could board.’
‘I have to board,’ Punsala said. ‘It takes me eight hours each way. Besides, this is the first time I have ever been to Colombo. I am so excited. I can’t wait to have some adventures!’
‘I don’t have a choice either.’ Devika shrugged. ‘I came down yesterday and stayed with my uncle in Moratuwa – but I can’t stay with him all the time.’
‘My parents won’t let me board,’ Renuka drawled from the next table. ‘They are organising for my old ayah to stay with me in a house here in town.’
‘Nila Mendis.’ Miss Gauri smiled as she came around. ‘It says on your form that you live in Kotahena. It’s about a two-hour trip from here, is it not? You may board or come from home each day. I would advise you to board, but it is up to you.’
Nila inclined her head, not quite sure what to say. Her mother would never consent to let her board. Who would help her with the housework? There was no time to think about it, though, for the next class started immediately
after lunch, in the cool shade of the eastern salon of the house.
‘I am so sorry,’ Guru Sakunthala apologised as they arrived. ‘It will be most difficult for you to concentrate after that fine lunch of rice and sambar – so why don’t we allow ourselves a little rest before we start, hmm?’ She gracefully sat down on one of the half-dozen or so planter’s chairs scattered around the room and closed her eyes. Unsure quite what to do, Nila, Devika and Rangana followed suit. Renuka, however, sat primly on her chair, though she did close her eyes.
‘Now wasn’t that lovely?’ Guru Sakunthala murmured, rousing her class from their slumber after about fifteen minutes. ‘I find these brief breaks very refreshing. At least it’s better than trying to push through with a class of glazed-eyed students who are barely taking anything in!’
The guru proved to be as practical as she was beautiful and wise. She took the group through the various saree embellishment techniques, ranging from silk painting to block printing, from embroidery to cutwork design with gold thread. ‘We’ll also spend four weeks on the principles of saree blouse design,’ she told them.
Her inspection of their samples before the next class was only brief. She’d allotted the same amount of time to it as the other teachers, but Renuka monopolised the time to such an extent that no one else got a look in.
‘I want to become a master embroiderer, Miss Sakunthala. I studied under a few embroidery teachers in Kandy, but I need to learn so much more! Do you offer private classes? My parents would be more than willing to pay! Please have a look at my batik – do you think the skills would transfer?’
The final class of the day was with the colourful Guru Raju. Unlike the other classes, it was not held with the smaller group of five but with the much larger group of sixteen. Some at the mill gossiped that Guru Raju had arranged it this way to avoid spending too much time there. They said he preferred to waste his days in idleness and dissipation down by the beach, where fishermen’s huts were set up as backpacker hostels, filled with exotic Western women with their hippie clothes and fair skin.
‘So this is our group of novitiates?’ Guru Raju drawled as he strolled into the large room at the back of the house. ‘Don’t call me Guru, by the way. It makes me feel old!’
‘Now, let’s look at the saree draping techniques we have on offer here,’ he said as he carefully looked over the girls in the group. Normally, Nila would have felt very self-conscious being inspected so carefully, but Guru Raju’s gaze was detached and academic, and with her many pins and poorly draped saree it wasn’t as if she would be singled out for attention.
Which was why she nearly jumped out of her skin with surprise when Raju tapped her on the shoulder as he went past, indicating that she should join Devika and Renuka at the front of the room along with two other girls, Ramini and Mala, whom she had met at lunch.
‘Let’s look at the Ossareeya drape of the saree first,’ he said, indicating that Ramini and Mala should step forward. ‘An excellent saree drape to preserve the modesty of the wearer, though not very practical if one is in a hurry or needs to do any serious work. Legend has it that the pleats we see on the outside were attempts made by noble Kandyan ladies to mimic the wide-hipped dresses of the Portuguese women who first visited Ceylonese shores in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.’
He went on to dissect the style in which the two women had draped their sarees, complimenting and critiquing in the same breath.
‘Now let’s move onto the most popular way to drape a saree – the classical nivi style. Here we have three women who’ve attempted it – each with a very different interpretation.’ Raju laid a gentle hand on Renuka’s shoulder. ‘What’s your name, nangi?’
‘Renuka,’ she said, looking at him coquettishly through the corners of her eyes.
‘Renuka has a very traditional interpretation. It is precise and proper. It does not reveal anything about who she is or what she brings to the world.’
Though his voice was soft and quiet, it was plainly a criticism, and Renuka looked stunned.
‘Now, this young lady here,’ Raju said as he moved over to Devika, ‘has a more interesting way of styling her nivi. While she does have the confidence to wear her fall without a pin,’ he said as he stood behind her, ‘she is quite sloppy at pleating and tucking in.’ He turned Devika around to demonstrate.
‘And to our final model,’ he announced as he moved to stand behind Nila. She was sure he could hear her heart rate accelerating with fear at the thought of what he would say about her.
‘If I had to characterise this drape in two words, it would be ignorance and fear. See how she’s tried to draw her saree so that it accentuates shape, but then left the drape gaping? Now that is ignorance.’
He pulled at her fall. ‘And fear! Look at how many pins she’s used to pin her fall into place – I am counting six just from her bustline to her shoulder!’ he said.
Renuka let out a loud guffaw of laughter and a few others tittered along with her.
‘Can you even walk, nangi?’ Raju asked Nila, noticing the stiffness of the drape around her legs. There was another ripple of laughter, and he turned to glare the class into silence. ‘This young lady just needs to practise. And that is what we’re all going to do now. I want you to pair up and drape each other’s sarees!’
And with that the first class in saree draping started in earnest, Nila and Devika automatically pairing up to practise on each other.
‘And that is where I am having trouble,’ Nila explained fretfully to Mrs Vasha. ‘I need to practise, but how can I when I barely get home in time for dinner and then I am up just a few hours later to draw the water and make rotis?’
‘How about when you come home? You are home by six-thirty, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, but then I have to help make dinner, which takes us well past eight-thirty!’
‘Have you asked your mother if you could board?’
‘I did, but she insists that she needs my help at home.’ Just then she heard her mother’s call from the kitchen step.
‘Nila! Nila! Where are you, girl? You’d better come in and get ready before the groom comes!’
‘Nila, leave it to me,’ Mrs Vasha announced as Nila stood up, collecting the cloves and tissue. ‘I will make sure you are allowed to board.’
‘Mrs Vasha, what are you going to do?’
The old woman gently reached up to smooth out the frown on Nila’s brow and patted her cheek. ‘Haven’t I always looked after you, hmm?’ she whispered gently.
If ever there was a class for quiet conversation, it should be design class run by Guru Lakshmi, the taciturn art teacher. But that would require bravery and boldness beyond Nila’s ken, for Guru Lakshmi not only discouraged conversation by her glacial stares but also had a nasty reputation for violence meted out with a simple hand fan.
Her carved wooden fan looked innocuous enough – why, a carved sandalwood hand fan was the pedestrian possession of every housewife on the island from Galle to Jaffna, and young children were known to associate its cooling breeze with afternoon naps – but in Guru Lakshmi’s hands, it was a weapon of torture. Poorly drawn lines and sloppy designs earned their creators sharp whacks across the head. Missed homework was rewarded with sharp raps over the knuckles. And conversations in class, oh my goodness – well, they resulted in sharp slaps that left indentations of the carvings on the cheeks of both interlocutors!
It was equally difficult to talk during the dyeing class. Handling the heavy paddles of the dyeing vats and measuring precise quantities of dye required concentration. Notwithstanding, the noxious fumes made any real dialogue as uncomfortable as it was downright hazardous.
But Nila did not want to wait till lunch to share her news with her best friend, so it would be the noisy yet convivial weaving class in which they finally spoke, albeit between the slap slap of the looms. She’d been running late that morning and had already missed prayers and design.
‘Bung, what’s going on?’ Devika
demanded as soon as Nila slipped onto the bench of the adjoining loom, coming from the direction of the administration office.
‘Has anyone told you it’s rude to be so demanding?’ Renuka said. There were four looms in the long corridor with a fifth just around the corner. ‘My mother says that only people from low birth are demanding – because it is their way to survive!’
‘And didn’t your mother also explain to you that it is rude to interrupt another’s conversation?’ Devika snapped.
‘I am being allowed to board!’ Nila told everyone excitedly as she unwound the cotton she was using as weft for her boat shuttle. Nila was working on a toile for a cotton day saree.
‘But I thought you came from a respectable family!’ Renuka said, feigning concern. ‘Isn’t your father a postmaster? Or were you lying just to give yourself airs?’
‘Can you mind your own business?’ Devika said. ‘This conversation is between Nila and I!’
‘I was only asking because I am concerned. Anything could happen in that boarding house!’
‘What exactly? There are locks on the doors and a night watcher.’
‘But you come from a respectable family, Nila,’ Renuka protested again, staring down her nose at Devika and Punsala.
‘Are you saying that we’re not respectable?’ Devika cried, and Punsala’s eyes flashed fire.
‘It is barely past nine in the morning and you girls have already given me a headache!’ Rangana shouted. ‘Shut up!’
Before the girls could reply, the weaving master arrived and soon they were caught up in their lesson, with only the odd glare being exchanged behind his back.
‘I know most of us like to think of a saree as a garment of glamour,’ Guru Sindhu said, ‘made of pure silk or the finest brushed cotton, but that is a newfangled thing. No, sarees should be made for purpose. Neither pure silk or soft cotton would be of any use to the respectable women who work the rice fields to fill our bellies,’ he said, giving Renuka the briefest of glances. ‘Women who work the field are in as much need of good sarees as the ladies who sip tea and gossip in their salons,’ he went on, treading the loom and adjusting the counterweights. And then the dwarf started to dance.
Saree Page 3