Searching Mother in Sari

I have always loved Mom’s when-we-go-out saris. Stealing her saris is one of the joys of my life these days. To visit her in Chennai , dig into her wardrobes, scavenging, running my hands through and turning her neatly aligned batches over to search for that elusive sari. To take a sari without permission, hoping that she will discover and call and get angry so I can laugh—my idea of mischief.

But she never misses any.

No, her tastes and mine don’t match. Her colours too loud, sari work too gaudy, and materials too silly. But somehow on her it is just right. I remember Mom in a parrot-green and dull-red bordered sari with her red bindi and Bengali shakha and how amazing she looked. And that peach georgette with appliqué work and how she looked like a fresh flower that one afternoon. And how she brought the sky in with her sky blue sari. And even the simple nylons with large flower prints that my uncle gifted her and how happy she looked.

I don’t remember Mother pinching, slapping, yelling in peach georgette sari.

Not that my mom is beautiful. Her nose kind-of stubby, eyes not well-shaped, mouth uninteresting, skin scarred like mine, hair sparse, not exactly a shapely body although she has lovely hands and feet.  But when she wore one of her when-we-go-out saris, she looked just right, so happy. How her moon belly peeked and how that smooth back beckoned and that well-endowed bust caused envy.

I steal her saris and rush to drape it on. And then look in the mirror. The mirror disappoints. Always. The sari looks flat, dull on me. In frustration, I tear it off and try on another. Again the mirror disappoints. The happy Mother eludes. The daughter remains—harsh and present.

Mom would work on her saris meticulously. Sometimes laying the fall, sometimes sewing the edges, setting an appliqué patch, sometimes fabric painting. And the many many blouses. And the petticoats. Some of her petticoats would have lace work.  She was quiet, focused, serene when she worked. Sunlight streaming into the room as her needle went about its work, mom with her stretched legs, the sari sprawled on her lap.

I started wearing mom’s saris when I was five or six. My first memory is of a bottle-green silk sari with some golden rounds pasted all over. Mom worked hard to tuck it in to my height. I remember walking in it towards the Durga Puja pandal, all the while checking behind to see if Mom was still watching from the verandah. Neighbors said that I carried sari well. Mom whispered—You are a Vadama. Wearing and carrying a sari well is in your blood.

Mother looked proud.

At seventeen, on Mom’s birthday I wore the sari she wore when she was seventeen. She looked so happy. After that, she sat me down for a reverse arati, the casting of evil eye.  She wanted me safe! I wore more of her saris. Her wedding saris, her dazzling reception sari. She did not get mad when I ripped the border of one of her expensive saris. It happens, she said.

Mother had been so angry when the vase had broken.

Mom tells me that it is okay if I steal her saris, that she is happy that I want her clothes. But not to take the cotton ones—they are so soft and comfortable and she feels good in them. I immediately yearn for them. I search the wardrobe, the boxes for her cotton collection. Pick few and rush to the other room to try it on. The orange-pink with slight embroidery, the light white-green with a thin border, the bright red with green border. Bengal handlooms. Drape it on, feeling the material between my fingers. Promise to wear a big bindi like she did.

The mirror doesn’t budge. The Mother continues to elude.

I notice her laundry basket. The orange-yellow cotton sari with a broad light green border lies crumpled in it. I remember how mom looked in it the day before. Why didn’t I notice? Pull it out and lay it on me. One round of wrap, adjust for pallu, gather the pleats, tuck, wrap and complete drape. Same sari.  That Mother wore, the daughter wears.

For the embrace. To get inside her arms, with my head close to her bosom, to look up and find her smiling down at me.  That embrace continues to dodge. The daughter remains—harsh, present and alone.

Still searching Mother in sari.