Madam is looking for a sari?

As the weeks drew nearer to my leaving Catholic Education many people would come and give me a hug at lunch or morning tea. The general consensus I gathered was that they were really going to miss seeing my colourful saris roaming around the building and the beautiful grounds of the Centre in Leederville.

People have been so very kind and sweet to me and I have really enjoyed all the cuddles. Being told how much they cared for or loved me was truly heart-warming. Several asked if I would wear my saris as often since I would be working from home. "Do you wear them while cooking, would you wear one when taking photos?" Well, of course the answer to those questions is sadly... a practical no. "But have you not grown up wearing saris?" (A very common question.) To which someone would always reply "... of course she did!" You can imagine how such questions and speculations always make me smile.

Okay, so remember I once said I would devote an entire blog entry to this beautiful garment? I've decided that today I would like to tell you the story of my very first sari, it happened in Malaysia and I remember it like it was just yesterday.

Would you like to take a moment to light some incense? Go on ... I really think it will go down well with this entry.

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On a seemingly insignificant street somewhere in Malacca, after a genuinely scrumptious breakfast of Masala Dosa, I drank the last bit of my Chai Tarik. Wiping my fingers one by one with a moist baby wipe, I glanced at the small TV suspended on the wall of peeling green paint, the black wiring haphazardly tacked onto a strip of wood that led to a power-point. Ceiling fans twirled slowly above circulating the humidity and at one corner of the room two lizards ran in their peculiar zig-zag fashion - to disappear into a little hole above the door that led to the kitchen.

It was a typical early morning scene that could be found at any coffee shop in Asia. A newsreel was on, but the sound was lost completely due to the usual morning exchange that was taking place within the little shop – Malay, English, Tamil, Hokkien and a yellow canary singing in a colourful cage. I sniffed my fingers to make sure they did not smell like curry, turned to Alan and told him I was going to pop into the fabric shop a couple of doors way while he and Donny finished their meal.

How do I remember such little details? It was 1996 for heaven's sakes! I even had to check the year with Donny before I started this entry. I could not tell you where this coffee shop was either, and I guess that is because I have Alan to remember directions. But everyday things that catch my eye like lizards and peeling paint, sounds and smells - I just love. I will indulge in all things sensory. And usually the more complicated a setting, the more the smells and the sounds ... the more I take in and hold onto.

An Indian lady with gold bangles in the fabric shop wagged her head and welcomed me with a smile that almost made her seem familiar. I slowly made my way through a meadow of flowering prints, ran my hand over what my dear mother would without hesitation refer to as 'Malay-looking' lace, gaudy patterned velvets and practical cottons. Then I caught my breath as the most iridescent raw silks and satins; sequined and beaded georgettes; and a sheer rainbow of flowing chiffon saris that had been pleated and suspended from the ceiling - came into view.

Inhaling the scent of what probably was jasmine incense, I noticed a little shrine dedicated to Goddess Lakshmi, the Goddess of Wealth. I counted 1 2 3 4 5 6 sticks of incense and marigolds arranged dutifully. The altar was by a narrow flight of stairs that led, I imagined to the area where the lady with the gold bangles probably lived with her family. Shophouses. That is what these terraces are called, isn’t it? For a moment I found myself lost in my thoughts about the whole concept of shophouses and Hindus actually having a Goddess of Wealth.

“Madam is looking for a sari?”

I turned around and there standing behind the glass counter on the other side of the shop was a man with a red tikka on his forehead. I smiled and told him that I have always wanted to wear a sari, but putting one on just looked too complicated. Plus I had visions of it unfurling as I boarded a bus or even worse of the pallu getting caught in a moving escalator. I began laughing and remember a clock ticking somewhere in that brightly florescent lit shop. He smiled, wagged his head and called out in Tamil towards the narrow stairs.

A young woman came hurrying down, and I remember how the trails of incense smoke dissolved around her, as she came towards me.

“No problem Madam, her sister can be showing you.”

Indicating first to the lady with the gold bangles and then to the young woman, who was now also smiling at me and wagging her head in agreement. I looked beyond her to the older sister and yes ... you guessed it, she was wagging her head with the same degree of enthusiasm. I wonder if they'll teach me head wagging too? It's such an art form.

Just then, Alan and Donny came into the shop. Before I could even begin to explain to Alan that I was about to be given sari draping lessons, the man with the tikka flung in quick and expert succession several colourful, flowing chiffon and georgette saris that he pulled out from under the counter - over all the bales of suddenly insignificant satins and silks. In mere seconds he managed to remove from my mind forever all thoughts I might have earlier entertained of buying fabrics to tailor into western-style outfits.

“Sir, I am just telling your missus she can be learning now how to wear sari … it is not a problem. You want Coke? 7-Up? Arre, tambhi …(continued taking in Tamil towards the stairs at no one in particular.)

A little boy came running down those stairs for instructions and then quickly up again. In an instant I was six years old once more, in Mr Majeed’s shop being offered a soft drink. (Refer blog entry Fun with Clothes) I have to smile as I type this. The polite technique employed to prolong our stay in their establishments, in order to entice us to buy ... Indians really do know how to be hospitable in business.

And so it began. I felt the women gently lead me towards the back of the shop one of them rubbing my arm in an affirming manner while the other began making friendly conversation - all the while wagging their heads gleefully. I felt my head wag back unskillfully. Back then, I always marvelled at an Indian persons ability to move their heads so effortlessly. Alan quickly turned on his video camera saying he would record each step so I could watch the instructions when we got back home and was trying to dress myself.

It was a red chiffon sari with a black pallu that had gold sequined flower patterns. I can still see the look on Alan’s face when the pallu was finally pinned onto my left shoulder and I turned around to walk towards him. He had been looking through the video camera and then he slowly lowered it and just stared at me. The two ladies and the man with the tikka - who respectfully by the way, only joined us when I was ready - began animatedly talking in Tamil. Wagging their heads, smiling and making the ‘ok’ hand signals in unified approval. Other members of their staff/family suddenly appeared with smiling eyes and wags of what appeared to be endorsement.

Sometimes, when you try something on at a store the salesperson tries to convince you that you look fabulous. But the mirror hangs there screaming at you "Harlow ... you are looking idiotic. You feel uncomfortable. Don't listen to them ... they are only trying to make a sale." Ever been in that position? Well, that morning at the fabric shop with the ticking clock and the heady perfume of jasmine incense - that was not the case. I felt like I belonged in a sari. I felt an identity emerging. There was genuine appreciation on all their happy faces. The fabric shop on what I thought was just an insignificant street in Malacca, had introduced me to a spectacular ritual that would become really significant in my life. Sari draping.

The man with the tikka turned to Alan and triumphantly wagged his head:

"See sir ... madam is looking beautiful. Hundred percent total Indian."