However, Rupani made it clear that she took no pleasure in Albert’s company. ‘Rupani, white sarees really suit you,’ Albert complimented Rupani nervously as they visited the Holy Temple. ‘And I had no idea you were such a devout Buddhist.’
‘Well, Nila bought me the saree and I know all my prayers because I went to a Buddhist school,’ Rupani replied in a bored voice. ‘And can you hurry up? I want to go for a ride on the lake!’ Rupani had snapped at Albert when he’d been delayed helping his elderly mother around the Holy Temple compound.
This rude behaviour had continued until the third morning of their week-long visit to Kandy, when Nila overheard a hushed, tearful conversation between Rupani and her mother in the early hours of the morning. ‘Amma, my monthly courses are late. What am I going to do?’
‘I think a quick marriage to Albert is all there is left to do.’
With that, Rupani’s behaviour changed dramatically, so much that Albert spoke to Mervan as soon as they returned to Colombo. That very night, dusty and wearied from all the travel, Albert had asked for Rupani’s hand in marriage.
‘Their marriage could work out. They could be very happy together,’ Raju said. ‘He clearly loves her.’
‘Rupani will never know of moderation or manners if she marries Albert,’ Nila said sadly, ‘nor will Albert know anything of love or affection.’
‘At least Rupani’s child will have a name,’ Raju said.
It was late when they arrived back at the mill after the wedding, and starting to rain. ‘I think there’s someone waiting for you,’ Nila told Raju with a smile as she spotted a golden-haired goddess dressed in a tie-dye frock waiting impatiently in the darkness by the footbridge to his bungalow.
‘I’d better go,’ Raju grinned. ‘But you work on that saree for the exhibition.’
With that Nila hurried to the corridor where Guru Sindhu had set up the broken loom for her. She took out the bags of raw silk she’d bought from the mill store earlier in the day and started to treadle the loom, using the heavier yarn for the baana, so that the saree would weigh downwards to flatter even the heaviest of Rupani’s friends.
Threading the loom took a lot longer than it should have, though. The breast beam kept falling off, bruising Nila’s legs, and even the heavy cross frame came loose and nearly split her head in two. By two in the morning, Nila had barely started the first heavy shedding and twisting that would reinforce the plain end of the saree when the batten fell over, nearly crushing the tips of her fingers. The wind had blown rain onto the verandah, soaking almost half of Nila’s store of silk yarn, and she was starting to feel very defeated.
‘By all that is holy, what are you doing with that old banger of a loom?’ Raju asked quietly as Nila sat there sucking on her fingers.
‘Weaving a saree, I hope,’ she mumbled from around her fingers.
‘You aren’t planning on weaving your exhibition piece on that old thing, are you?’ he asked as he picked up a scrap of cloth and wetted it by holding it out to the rain. ‘Give me your hand,’ he said, and gently cooled her throbbing fingertips with the cloth.
‘It’s the only loom available.’
‘But—’
‘Guru Sindhu searched and searched. This is the only loom left.’
‘Maybe one of the other looms will come free soon,’ Raju said. ‘It’s a bit too early to start weaving when you haven’t even designed what you’ll be weaving. And what is this?’ he asked, picking up the raw silk. ‘Surely you weren’t planning on making it with this!’
‘I was planning on making Rupani’s bridesmaids’ sarees with this,’ Nila said, snatching the hank of silk away.
‘When is the wedding?’
‘In five weeks. The afternoon of the exhibition.’
‘What if you win? What’ll you do then?’
‘Is there a chance I could win?’
‘Anything is possible if you give it a good chance!’ Raju growled. ‘But if you waste your time weaving sarees for Rupani’s silly wedding, then you won’t have a chance at all.’
‘I am not wasting my time—I am doing what needs to be done.’
‘Are you mad, Nila? You have a very good chance of getting a position here at the mill if you do well. Do not be silly and throw it all away for a sister who neither values nor loves you!’
‘I am not doing this for Rupani. I am doing this for my parents.’
‘Why? Because they love and care for you?’
‘No. Because they have raided my dowry fund and even taken a mortgage out on my father’s pension to pay for this wedding. If me making eight sarees for Rupani’s bridesmaids means that there’ll be enough money to buy rice for an extra month, I will do it!’
‘But you understand that you’ll be of more service to your parents if you get a job here!’
Nila’s eyes flashed, but Raju saw that her mouth was trembling, and he paused. She had lost a worrisome amount of weight over the past few weeks and lines of exhaustion marked her face. Not to mention that she’d helped him dress an entire bridal party just a few hours ago. The girl was so tired she was barely making sense.
‘Fine then,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll take care of it.’
‘No, please don’t even think of giving us the sarees. Rupani wants them dyed a particular shade of orange to match something or other.’
‘Don’t worry about,’ he repeated. ‘I will take care of it. You go to bed and get some sleep.’
‘But—’ Nila said hotly, ready to keep weaving for a few hours yet.
‘Go to bed, Nila, and get some sleep,’ Raju whispered softly. Nila opened her mouth to argue, but the weaver’s seat fell off the loom with a loud clatter and a cloud of dust, startling them both.
Nila sighed, hanging her head in defeat.
Anxiety clawed at Nila every time she went past the corridor where her broken loom should have sat. For it was not there. Disappeared. Without a trace. Someone had thought to sweep the space, so even the dust from the rotting wood was gone.
The likely culprit had vanished too. He must be off with one of his doxies, Nila thought grumpily as she walked around the mill looking for the missing loom. And it wasn’t as if she could simply ask Guru Sindhu for another loom, because there wasn’t another loom to be had.
‘Have you started on your designs yet?’ Devika asked Nila bluntly at morning tea time.
‘No.’
‘Then I suggest you make some time, cause if you don’t, Guru Lakshmi will disqualify you and then you will be in serious trouble.’
‘But I don’t have any time.’
‘Skip weaving – you are almost as good at it as Guru Sindhu!’
‘What am I going to use as inspiration?’ Nila asked, exasperated.
‘It’s the river, remember? There’s one right behind you!’
There had been a dramatic change at the mill in Nila’s absence. Since the theme for the exhibition had been announced, it was as if all the students had gone mad. Within the space of two weeks, friends had turned into foes. They poked and prodded one another, trying to discover each other’s designs, looking for ideas that they could cunningly appropriate for their own exhibition pieces.
Renuka had often admitted in the past that she was not interested in a career at the mill, but she was one of the most competitive. ‘I don’t need the money, but the prestige would make my in-laws proud,’ she’d drawled.
Even bubbly Punsala had become dour and secretive. She had peeked into Nila’s empty design book over morning tea the day before while keeping hers firmly tucked under her seat. ‘My mother really needs me to get this job,’ she’d snapped when Nila looked puzzled.
So Nila took Devika’s advice and skipped her weaving class. Instead she went for a long walk down the river to where it emptied into the estuary and the delta beyond. If inspiration was required, then it was there in a bountiful quantity.
Nila had never had the time to visit the many pools along the river. These little ponds were teaming with lotus now –
red, white and hues of green in between. The larger pools were home to young birds, including a watha rathu malkoha whose red face peeked in and out of the reeds that housed its nest and chicks.
Nila could not help but laugh as she saw five young otters and one who had to be the mama otter all living in the trunk of an old kos tree that had fallen over into the river. As the harried mother lay in the sun scratching herself, her young ones took turns somersaulting off an old overhanging branch and diving neatly into the water below.
So it was with joyous heart and peaceful mind that Nila returned to the mill to sketch her design. She sat by the steps of the amphitheatre to the outdoor temple and drew. And sketched. And pencilled. In the margins were her notes for the saree.
It would be woven from silk dyed in an emerald hue with silver thread being incorporated in every third weft row to give the fabric brilliance. The plain end would be reinforced with tassels. The embellished bottom border would have a playful cursive motif inspired by the family of otters. In their honour, Nila made it a recurring panel of five key elements. And the potta, well, that’s where Nila truly let her heart sing and her drawing hand fly. She drew the lotus pond with its multicoloured flowers – the heart-wrenching line and grace of buds peeking through the muddy interior and the flowers in full bloom that would eventually fade away.
Nila stopped only when Devika came in search of her for lunch. ‘Well done!’ Devika crowed when Nila showed her the designs. ‘These are truly amazing. I can’t wait to see how you weave this!’
‘I was planning on pearl beading the lotus flowers.’
‘I hope you have enough time to do all this,’ Devika warned with a worried frown.
‘It should be fine,’ Nila said. ‘Hey, have you seen Guru Raju?’
‘Not you too! I thought you were immune to him!’
‘No, it’s just that . . . oh, never mind. We’ll see him in draping class later today anyway,’ Nila said as she turned towards the boarding house.
‘Where are you going, Nila? The dining hall is this way,’ an exasperated Devika said, pointing in the opposite direction.
‘I’m going to put these in my room. I don’t want to get curry on my designs. I am having make-up classes with Guru Sakunthala and she usually brings lunch for us to share.’
‘Where is my loom?’ Nila asked Raju summarily later that afternoon in class.
‘In my bungalow – you can work there.’
She looked around to see if anyone had heard him. ‘No, I can’t. Someone could see me!’
Raju couldn’t help but smile. ‘Then come after seven in the evening and use the footbridge to cross over to Guru Sindhu’s bungalow, and then you can just step over the stream to my place,’ he said.
‘No, I won’t! It’s not appropriate to visit a guru.’
‘So why do I see you, Rangana and Devika often visit Guru Sindhu to drink tea on his verandah? If you work on your saree in my bungalow, you will be able to keep it hidden.’
‘I see no need to be so secretive about what I am designing!’
‘Oh really? Then why was it that Guru Lakshmi was showing me designs for sarees with a lotus motif pallu just before? Apparently Punsala handed in her designs early. One had a cursive motif with a recurring five element panel.’
Nila looked over at the diminutive Punsala, who was chatting with Renuka, in stunned disbelief.
‘I only needed to glance at the design to see your style. But Guru Lakshmi thinks that Punsala has improved dramatically under her tutelage and this is the evidence. So I suggest you come over to my bungalow tonight to work and store your designs there.’
Nila nodded quietly.
Nila, Devika and even Rangana had visited Guru Sindhu’s little bungalow many times. The little dwarf weaver loved to entertain and would cook his famous spicy potato balls with yoghurt dipping sauce for his favourite students. ‘Eat, eat,’ the little man would urge them as he shuffled around his quarters fetching a stool or a cushion to make everyone comfortable.
So Nila was quite confident crossing the little footbridge to get to Guru Sindhu’s bungalow, but she definitely had butterflies in her stomach when, with her design cartridges and pencils clasped to her chest, she took a large step across the tiny stream that separated Raju’s home from the others.
‘Raju! I am here, Raju!’ Nila called through the back door and waited for a moment. She called again and was met with silence. Glancing anxiously around her, she spied the local fishermen rowing down the river in a flotilla, their evening journey lit with a multitude of kerosene lamps. In a few moments they would come by and Nila’s secret would be blown out faster than a coconut lamp in the monsoon, for many of the fishermen were friends with the watcher at the mill.
Nila darted anxiously into the house without invitation, only to be met on the other side with the bulk of Raju’s chest. ‘I am so sorry, I am so sorry. I just didn’t want to get caught,’ she babbled nervously.
‘I was on my way to open the door,’ the guru said.
‘Did you still want me or shall I come back later?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. I was just tidying up. Come through,’ Raju said.
As they made their way through the little kitchen that held his bachelor tea implements and cooking utensils, Nila was struck by the raw and acrid smell of linseed oil. ‘What is that?’
‘Oh nothing,’ he evaded as he led the way to a living room with a large divan in the corner spread with a light quilt made of old sarees. Several kerosene lamps lit the warm lime-washed interior and on the other side, through a small indoor courtyard, was a small shrine to the goddess Saraswati and Lord Ganapathi. A freshly lit oil lamp indicated that Raju had probably finished praying just moments ago.
‘I closed the doors in case anyone thought of peeking in,’ he explained, pointing to the shuttered windows and doors. ‘I know a few keep tabs on whoever comes over the footbridge.’
‘You are aware, are you?’ Nila asked with a little smile.
‘Yes, I am completely aware. You could drop a hint or two to some of the girls that it’s pointless peeking into the bungalow early in the morning. My friends rarely stay the night.’
As Nila came into the room proper, her breath caught in her throat. What was this? Where had she come to? No one at this mill, Nila was sure, knew of this. ‘What are these, Raju?’ Nila asked, looking at the hundreds of stacked canvases in the room.
‘My paintings,’ he said.
‘What do you mean? I thought you were a saree maker.’
‘I am a saree maker because I have been taught my trade from since I was a babe. But what I want to be is a painter,’ he explained. ‘I was studying art in India when my father fell ill last year, so I came back to help Gauri with the mill. The agreement is that if we can get a good showing at this exhibition in India, then I can concentrate on my art.’
‘Oh, is there a particular style of work you do?’
‘Are you interested in art, then?’
‘Yes, it was my best subject at school. Do you do portraits? Or perhaps landscapes?’
Raju hesitated for a moment, turning slightly pink before clearing his throat, and said, ‘Nudes, actually.’ He picked up a canvas and turned it around to show Nila.
Unlike the other people who’d seen his work, Nila didn’t giggle, titter or look away uncomfortably when confronted with the naked female form. Instead she looked at the painting at length before turning around to pick up other canvases and setting them the right way around so that she could look at them. ‘But they are all of suddu women.’
‘Local women, both Tamil and Sinhala, won’t pose naked for me. Anay bay aiyo! Mata ladji aiyo!’ Raju mimicked the coy local lasses feigning embarrassed refusal. ‘I just can’t convince them that I am only interested in their bodies.’
Nila giggled. ‘I can see your problem.’
‘I mean that I am only interested in painting their bodies.’ Raju couldn’t help but smile sheepishly. ‘It is so difficult to f
ind any halfway cooperative models. The ones who do cooperate want my . . . oh, it doesn’t matter. You are not here to talk about my painting – you are here to design your exhibition piece.’
‘But where is my loom? Rupani’s bridesmaids’ sarees, what am I going to do about them?’
Raju took her hand and led her to a chair by the tiny dining table in the alcove. ‘You design while I weave,’ he commanded as he walked to the other side of the room and pulled a loom out from behind a silk screen. ‘I spent the day putting this together,’ he explained.
Raju had indeed repaired the loom. He’d hammered the frame together with new wood to replace the rotting beams and had properly bolted the whole thing together with fresh steel screws. As Raju threaded the frame, Nila sat at the table to design. She started half a dozen concepts as Raju took time and care to stretch the hundreds of fine two-ply silk threads along the length of the machine to create the garment.
But Nila rejected each design she came up with, crumpling cartridge after cartridge on the floor with exasperated sighs. She wasn’t going to revisit the lotus concept. And using the concept of fish seemed too trite. She already knew that Devika was using the rocks that the river cascaded over upstream as inspiration for her kalamkari masterpiece, so that wasn’t an option.
‘Why don’t you take a break?’ Raju advised as he started to twist the first two rows for the plain side of the first saree, and Nila looked up from her work a moment to watch him weave. He was dressed in his customary sarong but had discarded his singlet in the muggy night heat. His muscles bulged and ripped as he pushed the battens forward and back, moving the weave along at a tremendous pace.
Nila had always been entranced by Guru Sindhu’s weaving style, seeing the magic the dwarf made as he danced. But watching Raju weave was different: he commanded the loom. He was its master and the garment he created was at his beckoning. His towering height made it easy for him to push the battens forward and back and the strength in his legs meant the force he applied on the foot pedals was incredible. He could create a saree with a higher thread count per inch than Nila ever could, making the fabric denser and richer. Two-ply silk yarn went in one end and glorious supple fabric rolled out the other.
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