Nila looked away. How could she explain that she would rather spend the rest of her days at the mill if she could? That she’d finally found a true home?
‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ Gauri asked of her brother as Raju strode into the mill store, all grumpy, dusty and sweaty.
‘No,’ he grumbled. He took in the tiredness around Nila’s eyes and the hair flying out of her habitually neat bun and was angry with his sister. She should have asked one of the male students to help her instead of imposing yet again on Nila.
‘Do you even know what you’re looking for?’ Gauri teased.
‘No,’ he growled.
‘My brother the frustrated artist,’ Gauri said to Nila with a cheeky smile. ‘Since he can’t find the perfect girl, he is looking for the perfect saree! Like in the Vedas, he thinks the gods will bestow the perfect woman on him if he finds the perfect saree!’
‘Not the perfect woman, Gauri, the right woman,’ Raju said. ‘But the right saree would be a good start. I have spent the day trawling through our warehouses in Colombo and even made myself a laughing stock with the saree sellers by visiting boutiques that don’t carry our work. I have looked at hundreds of sarees, but none were right. I want something classic, none of this hours of beading and endless design. You can hardly see the woman these days for the amount of decoration on her drape!’
‘Why not find a simple saree, then?’ Nila suggested from the corner.
‘Where would I find one?’ Raju asked wearily. ‘I’ve looked everywhere.’
‘Why don’t you try the cupboard in the administration block,’ Gauri suggested, absently ticking off items from her inventory list. ‘Appa used to store old sarees they weren’t able to sell in there.’
‘I have nothing to lose,’ he said, and took off still muttering to himself.
Nila checked the time, and after saying a quick goodbye to Gauri, she too hurried away.
The heavy load of bridesmaids’ sarees she was carrying weighed her down and she only just made the train to Kotahena. A mere hour and a half later, she wished she had missed it – for when she reached home, there was no one there. Not a single welcoming light. Not even a note stuck on the door. Nila didn’t bother knocking on Mrs Vasha’s door, for she knew the elderly lady was visiting her sister up in the hill country. There were no lights from the Gamages’ house across the street either. It took Nila a good fifteen minutes of knocking on neighbours’ doors to find out where her family was.
‘So sorry,’ the harried neighbour apologised. ‘I was supposed to meet you, and take the bridesmaids’ sarees from you,’ she said, snatching the heavy parcel from Nila’s hands.
‘Where are they? My parents, my brother and sister? And the Gamages?’
‘They went down to the beach in Bentota for the long weekend. Your sister said she needed a little holiday before the wedding, so Albert hired a car and Manoj went along for the ride.’
‘Where am I supposed to stay?’ Nila wailed.
‘I don’t know,’ the neighbour replied as she locked the door behind her.
Nila looked up and down the street, wondering where she could spend the night. Normally, there would be at least half-a-dozen families who would gladly take her in, but they all seemed to have deserted the capital city for Poya.
Checking her purse, Nila discovered she had enough money to buy a ticket back home to the mill – no more, no less – but even the rail system conspired against her that night, for she heard the last train leave as she rushed into the station.
‘Nona, would you like to sleep on my bench?’ an old beggar woman offered. The old lady in question was coughing up blood and spitting it where she sat, so Nila shook her head, though she was tempted by the kind offer. Then, within a blink of an eye, some thieving ruffians snatched her large hessian tote containing a week’s worth of unwashed knickers and smelly brassieres. To add to her mounting woes, Nila no longer had any underwear left! She spent the night at the old station, hungry, cold and terrified.
Nila only gave full vent to her emotions when she finally reached the mill just before dawn the next morning to find the gates locked. Sobbing hysterically, she clung to the wrought-iron grilles. ‘Nila? Is that you?’ Raju called into the darkness, putting away his rifle. Hearing a noise, he’d thought that one of the crocodiles from the estuary had got a goat.
Delirious with exhaustion, Nila could barely raise her head as Raju swept her up into his arms and rushed her into his bungalow. ‘What happened?’ he kept asking as he tested her forehead for a temperature.
‘No one . . . at home,’ was all Nila could mutter as she fell into a dead faint, but not before seeing the nubile, full-bodied woman with dark eyes and skin rise from the tumbled sheets on Raju’s bed.
Nila would never forget the sound of rain on the roof of Raju’s clay tiled bungalow – the heavy thump thump, ceaseless and relentless. The rain coloured everything a dull shade of green, reflecting the emerald river around the mill.
As Nila slipped in and out of the clutches of an exhausted sleep, she heard snippets of conversation between Raju and the dusky beauty.
‘Who is she?’ a shrill voice demanded.
‘. . . not important . . .’ she heard Raju say.
‘Well, I didn’t come here for this kind of thing . . .’ The argument had shifted somewhat.
‘Leave then!’ Raju snapped in return.
‘You’ll have to explain everything to my parents!’ the female voice shouted. Nila heard the woman storm out into the rain, and the heavy thud of Raju’s footfalls as he raced after her. After hours of tossing and turning, Nila fell into a deep slumber again, to waken just as dusk was darkening the evening sky.
Raju had put her to sleep in the very bed left empty by his lover. She sat up abruptly and found herself naked under the quilt. She blushed furiously – how could she ever look Raju in the eye again? Since she could not find her clothes, she gingerly donned the light cotton robe Raju kept for his models as she padded into the main room, thinking only of a speedy exit.
‘What are you doing?’ Raju asked as he came in through the back door, leaving his black umbrella on the back stoop. He had two big hessian bags in his other hand.
‘Looking for something to wear.’
‘I went to your room and got your clothes,’ he explained, holding up one bag. ‘And something for us to eat, too,’ he said, holding up the other bag.
‘I’ll leave as soon as I get dressed,’ Nila replied, taking the bag of clothes and disappearing into the bedroom. ‘Thank you so much for everything you’ve done,’ she called out as she dressed. ‘I’ll get Rangana to help me move the loom when he gets back.’
‘Why? You’ve been working so well here.’
‘I really don’t want to cause any more trouble,’ Nila explained, coming into the room looking for her slippers.
‘Aren’t you staying for dinner? You haven’t had anything to eat for two days!’
‘That’s fine, Raju, really. I’ll pop into town to get something.’
‘In this rain? Don’t be an idiot!’
‘But I don’t want to be any trouble,’ Nila said. She headed for the front door before changing her mind and tracking through the house to the back. There would be a few students still at the mill and she’d rather not get caught leaving the guru’s bungalow.
It was only as she made her way through the small living area that it hit her – the tangy fragrance from the light papery dosai and the soupy sambar Raju had laid out. It was like being felled by a falling coconut. Her stomach growled quite audibly. She nearly swooned when Raju pulled out several piping hot urdu vadai from a paper bag.
‘Sit,’ Raju commanded, pushing Nila onto a wooden chair and setting a plate in front of her.
‘Thank you,’ Nila replied weakly as she ate, dipping pieces of the crisp pancakes in the soup.
Raju waited a good ten minutes before he interrupted. ‘You’ll be happy to know I have found the perfect saree. You wer
e right – I needed something simple. And I found it in the cupboard, just as Gauri suggested.’
‘When was it made?’ Nila asked between mouthfuls.
‘I can’t figure that out. The fabric is old, but the work on it is quite new. And I can’t figure who made it either.’
‘Haven’t you asked your sister?’
‘My sister took off to the beach not long after you left – though I think all the holiday-makers will be severely disappointed,’ he said dryly, gesturing to the sheet of grey-green rain outside. ‘Now tell me what happened, Nila. You told me you’d be back on Monday. The saree I peeled off you was foul. I tossed it into the cook’s fire.’
Nila stiffly explained what had happened.
‘And they didn’t tell you or arrange for you to stay somewhere else?’ Raju asked, incredulous.
‘It was my fault. I normally get home early. They probably waited for me as long as they could.’
‘Nila, there is no excuse for abandoning your child. Never! I’d sooner rip my own heart out.’
‘But it wasn’t so bad . . .’
‘Really? Where would you have gone, had you not had the mill to come back to?’
‘Well, I did. It doesn’t matter,’ Nila said as she stood to leave.
‘Don’t you want to see the saree? It is perfect!’ Raju said, feeling a deep stab of pain at the thought that she might go.
‘I’d better get back. You probably want to get back to painting anyway,’ Nila said, flicking her hand in the direction the easel. On the canvas was the rough outline of a young woman who bore a striking resemblance to the woman she’d seen last night.
‘Please, Nila.’
Nila did not want to see the saree. She was afraid that he would, in a moment or two, look into her eyes and see. See her love for him. And the pity that was sure to follow would render Nila wretched beyond belief. But she could not say no. Not to Raju. So she took a deep breath, sighed, and turned slowly towards the simple wooden frame in the corner.
He led the way, lighting kerosene lamps. ‘It is a truly beautiful saree, Nila,’ he said. ‘The person who created it struck the perfect balance between adornment and letting the fabric speak for itself. There is a youthful naivety about it, yet the styling is so sophisticated. The person who made it must have a beautiful soul. A pure soul,’ he continued, as he lit the lamp nearest the frame and moved away so Nila could see it.
For a moment Nila couldn’t speak. Her heart stopped. For in front of her was the saree she’d made as a sample for her first day. The sample that Miss Gauri had taken into her possession before saree draping class. Her first attempt at saree making.
‘What I’d give to meet this person!’ Raju said rapturously.
‘Maybe you already have,’ she said with a broken smile. ‘That was the saree I made for my first day sample.’
As she turned to walk away, he caught at her arm and stopped her. ‘What is it, Raju?’ she asked, looking up, and before she could protest, he kissed her.
‘No, Raju, no!’ She squirmed away.
‘Why not?’ he demanded.
‘I don’t want to end up as just another woman in your bed! How dare you!’
‘Is that your problem? That I am a womaniser?’
‘Yes! There is no love here,’ Nila yelled, tears starting to course down her face.
‘You may not love me, but I certainly love you,’ Raju replied, his voice catching in his throat.
‘How can you? I am not beautiful! I am not even pretty! I am ugly,’ she cried.
‘No, Nila, you are not ugly. The person who created that saree could never be ugly!’ he replied, gathering her into his arms and kissing any part of her that he could, telling her that he loved her over and over again. ‘I cannot live without you, Nila. I knew for sure this morning when I found you at the gate. I was so scared something had happened to you. I would have died, Nila. I would have died.’
‘Raju, you love many women. What you feel for me will pass,’ Nila protested, trying to break free from his embrace.
‘Nila,’ Raju said, holding her face by her chin and looking deep into her eyes. ‘When I turned eighteen I took my vows as a Hindu priest. It is a privilege only open to Brahmins and Saliyas. I can only sleep with one woman. My wife.’
‘But what about—’
‘I have never slept with any of them,’ he whispered. ‘I have never been with anyone,’ he insisted as he carried her to his bed in the alcove.
Surfacing from sleep for the second time in as many hours, Nila stretched languorously, feeling the gentle sting between her legs that had never been there before. She didn’t even need to turn her head to hear Raju’s heartbeat. It was just there, just below her ear, as he held her tightly. Slow, steady and dependable. Yet Raju’s uneven breathing told her that he was awake, and suddenly fear gripped her. Would he regret what they had done? What would happen to her?
Before panic could claw away at the joy of Nila’s most perfect night, Raju shifted, sensing that she was awake. ‘Wasn’t that beautiful, darling?’ he demanded, turning so that he was cradled between her thighs, his lips just over hers, his proud, jutting manhood telling Nila that their passion had far from burnt out. And if their first time had been beautiful, the second could only be described as exquisite. There was no fear this time, just unbearable joy, as they took turns trying to out-pleasure each other, giggling and laughing as they discovered each other’s bodies.
But panic did claw at Nila when she woke for the third time, in the early hours of the next day just before dawn. Raju was not there next to her and the coolness of his side of their narrow bed told her that he’d left some time ago. This gave Nila the time to let terrifying thoughts come to the fore. What was she going to do? She certainly couldn’t demand Raju marry her. She loved him too much for that. And she knew objections would come from both their families. She was Sinhalese and he was a Tamil.
Unable to lie still, Nila curled over to bury her head in Raju’s pillow, inhaling his fragrance, the smell of the camphor and sandalwood he used for religious rites. The rain had stopped, but in the dark light of dawn she could see that the rain clouds were not far away. The end of the monsoon had not yet arrived.
‘Hey, what are you thinking?’ Raju asked as he padded into the room and sat down on the bed next to her.
‘Raju, what are we going to do? This can never work. Our families will kill us.’
‘Shh . . . come, come with me,’ he said, pulling her up.
‘But Raju!’
‘Trust me,’ he replied, as he took her into the main room and helped her to dress in a plain white cotton saree. He draped it on her like a lover who knew her body, all the secret nooks and crannies of pleasure. When he was finished, she helped dress him in his dhoti – not a sarong, but the garment of the Hindu priests.
‘Come,’ Raju said, pulling her out the front door and over the little footbridge. He hurried her along the muddy track by the river to the outdoor temple, where he carefully helped her down the narrow set of stairs to the amphitheatre, made slippery by the rain. Nila stopped and held her breath.
The entire temple was lit with hundreds of little oil lamps. In the centre was a small dais bearing just a handful of flowers, some sandalwood and camphor. In the fathomless darkness that marked the moment between night and day, Nila could not say if she’d strayed into a magical dream.
‘It’s not extravagant, Nila, I’m sorry,’ Raju apologised as he led her to the altar. ‘But it’s enough for marriage.’
‘Raju, your family will hate me and mine . . . and I don’t know what they’ll do to you!’
‘Nila, neither your family nor mine will be able to do anything to us.’
‘They will – they’ll track us down and hurt us,’ she cried.
‘Not to India, they won’t,’ Raju said with a smile. ‘We’ll stay in India until they calm down – and if they don’t, we’ll either remain in India or move to London.’
‘But what about th
e saree mill? It is your birthright!’
‘No, you are my birthright. Everything else I could lose and I wouldn’t care a jot.’
‘What about your father, Raju?’
‘My father will be angry for a while, but he loves me too much to stay that way for long. He will come around. Especially once you give him a grandchild,’ he whispered. ‘So promise me, Nila, that you will be mine. In this life and for the next seven.’
So she did, following him around the sacred fire seven times. As Raju recited the ancient verses that bound them as husband and wife, he strung on her a simple gold pendant on the white cord he wore habitually around his chest, the symbol of his priesthood. ‘It’s not much, but I will drape you in gold when we get to India,’ he told her.
As he tied the simple mangala sutra around Nila’s neck, he stared deep into her eyes. ‘I promise to protect our home and our family,’ he said.
‘I promise to be true and loyal to you,’ Nila vowed in return.
They recited the seven ritual pledges to each other before the beatific Saraswati and the tender Lord Ganapathi, the gods being the only, yet most powerful, witnesses to their nuptials.
Just as they finished the last of the fourteen sacred rites, the sky above thundered. The peace was over. Raju and Nila ran through the pouring rain to their bungalow, and there they would remain cloistered for the next two days. Not that they minded. What use were fancy hotels or exotic locations for honeymooners so desperately in love with each other?
Raju’s only living parent was his father. His mother had been taken by the malarial epidemic of 1968 while he was at school in the UK.
‘You couldn’t come to see me all weekend? You could not even come on Monday. It takes you till Tuesday to make an appearance. It takes no more than five minutes to walk from there to here,’ the old man snapped gruffly from the divan. Old age and a series of strokes had left the once robust saree maker partially blind and paralysed from the waist down, but Shiva Nair still knew his mind.
‘I told you about the paintings that Tambimuttu Mama asked me for. I have been working on them. And what’s the point in coming here anyway? You are always asleep,’ Raju teased, gently picking up the old man and taking him to the dining table.
Saree Page 11