Saree

by Su Dharmapala

  ‘Surely you’ll want to make a decision before that. It is the sensible thing to do. That’s how we’ve always done it before you came back.’

  ‘So that all the other students can waste their time doing work that will be of no consequence, Guru Lakshmi? No. That is not fair. I won’t make my decision before the exhibition,’ Raju returned firmly.

  ‘Fine then,’ Guru Lakshmi sniffed. ‘When will Gauri announce the theme for the exhibition?’

  ‘The Monday after we return from the Uva Planters’ Ball in Bandarawela. The exhibition will be on the twenty-first of September and the winners will leave with me for India on the evening flight. That way they can visit the saree houses in India before they start their work proper.’

  ‘You are giving them seven weeks? We’ve only given them six in the past!’

  ‘It gives the students who’ll be going with me to Bandarawela enough time.’

  Guru Lakshmi sniffed nastily again before dramatically swinging her potta around and following the sadhu, who’d started to toll the bell for the pooja. She was followed by Guru Hirantha.

  ‘Raju, can you take Nila up to Bandarawela next week? That girl is talented, but she needs to learn taste,’ Guru Sakunthala hissed as she went past.

  ‘Nila is an exceptionally talented young lady. She has a gift for the baana and thaana, Raju. And she has a good heart . . . a pure heart. We need her,’ Guru Sindhu murmured softly before he picked his place in the chant.

  Nila wondered how much longer Devika and Rangana could continue arguing. It had started as soon as they’d left the mill. They were halfway to Ratnapura now and they’d barely stopped to draw breath!

  ‘Gani, listen here. I am a man from Kandy. My ancestors are from Kandy. My ancestors’ ancestors are from Kandy. It is faster to get from Panadura to Bandarawela through Kandy than it is to get from Bandarawela to Ratnapura!’ Rangana repeated for only the twentieth time.

  ‘It may be faster but the road is much more windy and there are more mountains!’

  ‘That may be the case but the road through Kandy is better!’

  ‘But going on the Kandy road means that we go through Colombo and we don’t want to sit in traffic through the city!’

  ‘What would you know? You’re just a farmer’s daughter from Matara!’

  At that point, Nila reached from the back seat to pinch Rangana on the ear.

  Guru Raju was driving the three of them to Bandarawela – to the very harvest ball that Nila’s sister Rupani was attending with Piyasili and her brother Sunil. When Rupani had found out Nila would be there, the row at home in Kotahena had been beyond belief.

  ‘The only reason she is going is so that she can ruin me!’ Rupani had screeched.

  ‘The only reason I am going is that the Nairs have been going to Bandarawela to dress the mothers and debutantes for twenty years!’ Nila told her.

  ‘Amma, no man will want me if they know my sister looks like her! Look at her! And they will question my respectability if they know I have a sister who works!’

  ‘Don’t go. Tell them you can’t go!’ Vera had commanded. ‘Tell them you are needed elsewhere.’

  ‘Amma, I have already tried telling them I’d much rather not go, but Guru Raju won’t take no for an answer. And I will lose my job!’

  ‘Upstart of a Tamil!’ Rupani had snapped.

  Vera looked uncomfortably at Nila. She could not risk losing her elder daughter’s direct income or the indirect income they earned by renting out her room, but her sympathies were with her younger daughter. Then she had an idea.

  ‘You will not speak to your sister. You will not look at your sister. You will not claim any relation to your sister! Do you understand me, Nila?’ Vera demanded.

  Nila had been appalled at the request but had acquiesced. It wasn’t as if she could say no to her mother – or Guru Raju.

  ‘We leave the day before to go to Bandarawela so we can arrive rested and relaxed. That way we are best prepared to deal with a day of hysterics and hijinks,’ Raju had insisted to Devika, Rangana and the red-eyed Nila who’d tried several times to beg off going up to the ball.

  ‘And we set up a saree stall in the foyer of the Bandarawela Grand Hotel. Women inevitably change their minds about the sarees they want to wear and there are seamstresses who are prepared to stitch saree blouses at a moment’s notice,’ Miss Gauri had added. Only everyone was taken by surprise as Nila stifled a sob and bolted out the room.

  Guru Raju had rolled his eyes and look an askance at his sister. Did he really have to take her with him?

  Gauri narrowed her eyes and gave him a menacing nod. Yes. Gauri adored Nila. The girl was kind and gentle as she was talented and intelligent.

  Raju shrugged wearily. He was already exhausted. Never in his experience had the drama started before the ball. First, the mill’s Volkswagen kombi van had broken down. After spending an afternoon down with the mechanics in Panadura, Raju had to concede it could not be fixed in time. He then wasted several more hours trying to find a van to hire before resigning himself to driving the old crank-handle Ambassador up the mountains.

  The view from the mountain road was spectacular. Even the most prosaic of souls could not fail to be moved by the splendour of the steep slopes covered in a velveteen blanket of tea bushes, flecked with the brightly coloured sarees of the tea pickers who darted in and out of the hills. But three hours into the journey and not a single word about the stunning scenery had been uttered. Not a single mention was made of breathtaking vistas that presented themselves at every bend or turn. No. Rangana and Devika would insist on arguing about the road.

  However, just past Poruwadanda, as the road started to climb more steeply and wildly, the squabbling had stopped, though it was a mixed blessing indeed. For the two protagonists had finally found something they had in common – carsickness. Then Raju had to stop the car at regular twenty-minute intervals so that either or both of them could regurgitate their breakfast. He had to crank start the car each time they stopped.

  ‘You don’t suffer carsickness, then?’ Raju asked Nila thankfully after Devika and Rangana had drifted off to sleep in the back seat.

  Nila shook her head.

  ‘This is beautiful country, isn’t it?’ the guru said.

  Nila was silent. She found the handsome draping master intimidating and his obsession with appearances superficial. The constant parade of beautiful young white women was annoying as well. It gave rise to an inordinate amount of gossip among workers, students and teachers alike. Nila would much rather work on her weaving than keep tabs on the foot traffic over the narrow bridge that connected Guru Raju’s bungalow to the mill.

  ‘Are you looking forward to the ball tomorrow? I hope Gauri told you to pack a nice saree – the planters usually don’t mind if we join the dancing later.’

  ‘No,’ Nila replied, rapidly blinking back tears.

  ‘You don’t like dancing?

  Nila shrugged. She had never had the occasion to dance, her parents choosing to take Rupani and Manoj to parties or weddings.

  ‘So, tell me about yourself, Nila. I know you have two brothers and a sister. Are you close to them?’

  Nila shook her head stonily.

  Raju tried again, telling himself that this would be his last attempt to get through to the girl.

  ‘I saw you at the store the other day when your sister came to visit you. It was very nice of you to buy her first saree. A very special day for a young lady, when she gets her first saree. She is very beautiful, your sister.’

  Tears collected in Nila’s eyes and she looked away. Yes, she’d bought Rupani her first saree. More than that, Rupani and her mother had insisted that Nila pay for two further sarees. Rupani had known exactly what she wanted for her visit to the Ranasinghes: ‘Nice cotton sarees for the day, at least two chiffon sarees for the evening and a grand silk saree for the ball!’ Nila had loaned her sister her own cotton sarees, but the chiffon and silk they had purchased new. This
had eaten up what had been left of Nila’s savings, so much that she didn’t even have money for her train ticket back home the following weekend.

  Raju gave up. There was no getting through to Nila Mendis. He would second the nomination of Renuka at the faculty meeting. For while Renuka was vicious as a viper, she did have a spark in her, something Nila desperately lacked.

  The Grand Old Hotel in Bandarawela was abuzz. Everybody and everything was quivering with excitement. Even the flying cockroaches knew better than to show their ugly faces that evening, hiding away in nook and crevice to return to exasperate the cleaning staff after the party. Plantation families from all over the hill country and the crème de la crème of Colombo high society had been pouring into Bandarawela for a fortnight now, and tonight was the height of the tea harvest festivities.

  By early evening a large contingent of older gentlemen had retired to the downstairs bar to nurse tumblers of scotch, needing a break from the hysterics and hijinks, but a whole battalion of younger men remained, and had taken station near the foot of the grand staircase. They were there to watch the debutantes as they made their way down the ancient stairwell. For there was money riding on it – on which of the young ladies would take a tumble swathed in a saree for the first time. And there was money on who would show the most leg while engaged in the delicate task of hitching her pleats to step down the first stair.

  There was also another wager afoot, but this one was discussed only in sly whispers, for the boys were petrified – truly petrified – of being caught by their wives or mothers. Why, if the stakes of the wager were to be revealed, well, it would most definitely result in a scolding of the severest kind, or goodness knows what! All that could be discerned, even by the nosiest of waiters, was that it involved Piyasili Ranasinghe’s new friend, the flirtatious Miss Anoja Mendis.

  But above stairs, the Mendis name was being used in quite a different way altogether. For Nila Mendis was being feted by all and sundry. Several harried lady’s servants were employed in the task of simply hurrying her from one dressing-room to the other!

  Nila’s rise to fame had come as something of a surprise. The group from Nair & Sons had set up their annual stall that morning and waited for customers as usual. Raju did most of the selling while the others assisted him. That was until Nila helped sell a saree to one of the more elderly ladies who’d come in.

  The matriarch of a large rubber plantation family, she’d long since relinquished bright colours in favour of whites and beiges as an emblem of her widowhood. ‘Raju told me she never buys anything,’ Devika had hissed at Nila as the old woman walked up. ‘He asked me to ask you to deal with her.’ Raju had been assiduously ignoring Nila since their stony ride to Bandarawela the day before.

  Nila approached the older lady and waited for her to speak first. ‘I am not looking for anything,’ the older lady had snapped, so Nila kept a respectful distance while still shadowing her through the stall.

  ‘Do you have anything in white?’

  ‘Do you need a saree for temple, madam?’

  ‘No, I need a white saree for tonight!’

  ‘I do have some white sarees that are suitable for temple or funeral wear, but I don’t have any that would be suitable for a grand party.’

  ‘What about that silk saree hanging there? That white one with the silver border? Are you blind?’

  And with the practice born of dealing with the elderly Mrs Vasha, Nila was able to gently guide the lady away from the garish white drape with delicate humour. ‘Oh madam, that would sooner suit a Bharatanatyam dancer than a lady!’

  ‘Why should I buy any sarees when I am one foot in the grave?’ the old woman growled, tossing her jewelled hands in the air.

  ‘Because then you’ll be well dressed in your coffin. Do you want the gossips to say that they had you dressed in rags?’

  ‘Oh, if only that is all they would say! They’ll say I was a crotchety, stingy old woman!’

  ‘Well, are you?’

  ‘Crotchety or stingy?’

  ‘Stingy. All old people are crotchety. How can anyone be cheerful when their joints hurt?’

  ‘Ha! You are a funny girl. I like you!’ the woman had laughed. ‘Of course I am stingy. How can a person not be stingy if they have people constantly asking them for money? I need a new a new car! I need two new servants! We need more equipment for the plantation!’ she said, mimicking her whiny offspring. ‘They’d leave me to die if I didn’t hold the purse strings.’

  ‘Oh madam, why not spend a little money on yourself, then?’

  ‘At my age? No. They’ll say I am wasting their inheritance,’ the lady muttered.

  Nila understood. The old lady was lonely. Lonely despite living in a household with a large extended family.

  ‘Madam, I am not going to tell you to buy a saree. I think the saree you have on right now is pretty enough for tonight. But let’s have a look at some sarees for fun,’ Nila suggested kindly.

  For the next half hour, Nila and the old lady simply enjoyed themselves looking at the various sarees – touching their soft silk, playing with the beads that made up the potta and inhaling the fragrance of the sea still clinging to the yards of fabric.

  ‘You know, Miss Nila, when I was a young girl my father took my family down to Hambantota for a holiday by the beach,’ the old lady reminisced as Nila selected a soft white saree with an aquamarine wave motif from a pile that had been set aside for the young debutantes. Nila had noticed the lady’s eyes straying over the saree several times. ‘I spent two whole months there. It was the best time of my life,’ the woman confided as Nila draped the new saree over the one she was already wearing.

  ‘Was it just the holiday by the beach or was there anything more?’

  ‘Since you ask, yes. I fell in love with a young man who used to catch the bus every morning for school. I never met him – I didn’t even speak a word to him – but his face was so kind. Years later I saw a sahastara karaya when my husband was visiting the whore who used to be my maid. And he told me that I had seen the face of my true love but never spoken to him.’

  ‘What do you think, Madam?’ Nila asked, turning the woman gently around to the mirror.

  The years fell away. Hidden below the gnarled and wrinkled body, a sweet young girl showed her face again. The old lady held her hand to her heart. She no longer had one foot in the grave, for Nila had draped her a young woman’s saree. Modest yet hopeful; demure and pure.

  ‘Why, Mrs Hettiarchie, I haven’t seen you look this well since your eldest son’s wedding!’ an acquaintance called out from the foyer as Nila gave her a spontaneous kiss on her papery cheek.

  ‘Young lady, I will have this saree and four more, and let them say I am wasting their inheritance!’ the lady cried, fishing out a crisp five hundred rupee bill from her purse.

  Having observed Nila at work, a few of the ladies who’d been chatting with Devika about sarees abandoned her. They found her flippant and not willing to listen. They did not wish to be served by Raju, either. Chatting with someone so handsome could raise the heckles of jealous husbands. And Rangana – well, Rangana was a surly young man who just told them what to wear. And these women already had enough of dictatorial men in their lives. As they unburdened their sorry hearts, Nila found sarees that suited them best.

  For the harried mother of two sets of twin boys, she chose a blue-grey chiffon. ‘I haven’t bought a new saree in five years!’ the woman complained in between yelling at her boys to stop sliding down the handrail of the grand staircase. ‘Well then, this saree should suit you,’ Nila advised with a gentle smile. ‘See, it only costs a hundred rupees. And at that price, do you really care if you put a hole through the hem running after your boys?’

  For a woman trying to woo her husband back from his mistress, it was a red Kanchipuram silk with erotic temple motifs. Nila advised her to pleat her saree only seven times for good luck and advised her to wear it without an underskirt. ‘I’ve heard it drives men c
razy when their wives have nothing on under their sarees!’

  ‘Is my potta right, Nila? Is it finishing just at my hemline?’ Devika asked hurriedly as Nila put the finishing touches on her friend’s drape. All the ladies had had their sarees draped and Nila could hear the music wafting up the stairs.

  ‘It is perfect, Devika. Go. Have fun!’

  ‘Aren’t you coming?’

  ‘In a bit.’

  ‘Are you sure? I could help you with your saree.’

  ‘I’ll come down in half an hour or so,’ Nila lied. ‘Let me rest for a bit.’

  Devika glided over to kiss Nila on the cheek. ‘You deserve some rest. You draped sarees on at least twenty-five ladies.’

  ‘Thirty, actually.’

  ‘We’ll see you soon,’ Devika called as she rushed down the stairs.

  Nila tidied the room, picking up discarded clothes, packing away the safety pins and the lengths of cord used to tighten the waistbands of underskirts, humming to herself. She could only imagine the beautiful ladies downstairs, swirling around in their mesmerising sarees – cerulean blues, ruby reds, golden creams and dark greens sparkling under the crystal chandelier.

  ‘You’ve done a splendid job today, Nila. You truly have,’ Raju said from the door as Nila half-jumped out of her skin. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,’ he apologised, strolling in.

  ‘Thank you,’ Nila said, looking away. Nila wasn’t usually much affected by the handsome draping master, but that night, Raju, the perennial devotee of sarongs and singlets, was dressed in a crisp grey suit with a white shirt and blue tie. For the first time, Nila understood why he had so many of his female students swooning.

  ‘Aren’t you coming down?’ he asked. ‘Many people want to meet you. I’ve been asked to book you for several weddings.’

  ‘I am a little tired – I’ll come down later.’

  ‘Oh, come now. This is silly. Come with me while people are still sober enough to meet you properly,’ Raju said. Even from across the room, Nila could smell the sour fragrance of arrack on Raju’s breath.