Six Yards and More

I am not a shopper. I suppose I am too impatient to be one. I buy on an impulse and like to believe that most of the time I don't have to regret my choices. But weddings don't happen on an impulse and the shopping needs necessarily to be planned...and well ahead of time at that. This will be the one instance when I cannot pass off a fashion disaster with a toss of a head, claiming preference for the off-beat. My sari on the wedding day must be suitably opulent but not gaudy, elegantly subtle but not plain. Needless to say that long hours would be spent debating, arguing and sulking before a choice is finally made.

Fortunately, some decisions are easy. It would have to be a traditional kancheevaram sari at least on the D-day. The regal weave from the small town of Kancheevaram has always been the preferred choice of all brides from my home. The georgettes and chiffons make a dignified exit when it is time for us to be brides.

So, off we went, packed away with snacks and the compulsory flask of water that would sustain us through the two-hour drive from Chennai to Kancheevaram. I had dressed appropriately - a crisp blue salwar kameez with a lovely pair of white sandals. The sari connoisseurs at home have always advised me to be well dressed to a sari store. The service is (perceived to be?) better and the keen store assistants are likely to gauge your preferences more easily if your clothes highlight your tastes. Clearly they were referring to the Nallis, Pothys and Sundaris in singara Chennai which are happy to indulge these women with air conditioned rooms, cushioned seats, polite customer service and the welcome cup of filter coffee after the purchase - all resonant of the emerging (and rather delightful) urban phenomenon called retail stores.

A.S. Babu Sah, where we spent the day looking at over 300 saris turned out to be different. Very different. The store had a blue cloth to cover the entrance, much like the kirana stores we see in every corner of any Indian city. You leave your footwear at the door amidst a mound of shoes, while sending up a prayer that you will find both your shoes at the end of the expedition. Then you walk into a narrow corridor that opens into a massive room that looks much like Ranganathan street. When your eyes adjust to the scene, you realise that people are sitting in little circles and peeking over dozens of saris that are showcased by the store assistant who sits at the head of each circle.

A.S. Babu Sah Store: Trust me the photograph makes it look nicer!

We squeeze past the crowds and manage to find one store assistant who is wrapping up the purchases in his circle. As the group leaves we try and get comfortable in a little circle while the store assistant attends to the bills of his earlier customers. The woman in the adjacent circle gives me an unpleasant look when I request her to move a little. I contain the impulse to exchange sharp words. At that moment, we are but potted plants fighting for space. The store assistant finally makes it back and then proceeds to give us his undivided attention. He is quick to know that we are shopping in bulk – saris not just for the bride but for the family and relatives and relatives of relatives. Stacks after stacks of saris arrive carried in by another assistant. I am fascinated by how efficiently each sari makes its way around the store until she finds a buyer at a circle. We envy the saris that our neighbors managed to bag before we did, inevitably wondering if they got the better store assistant. But the tables turn a few hours later, when we have selected a good number of saris and the circle next to ours is just starting out.

Four hours later we decide to call it a day. The shopping list is still incomplete. But we are tired and our store assistant, by this time informal with us, is starting to show signs of fatigue. I leave my father and sister to attend to the bills and take charge of locating four pairs of shoes. I manage to retrieve all four pairs from under a massive pile. I feel gleeful relief that I will not have to walk barefoot to the car!

It's been a long but successful day. My sari looks stunning and meets approval by my team of shoppers. Questions and thoughts that run in my mind as we drive back:

1. No shopper seems to leave the place empty handed. The store assistants' skills are worth a study.
2. Why are store assistants in sari shops traditionally men? Saris often need to be semi-draped before they are bought and in a society where touching the opposite sex is taboo, it seems rather strange that women assistants have not replaced the men in large numbers.
3. What prompted a Gujarati business man to travel all the way down south to Kancheevaram to set up a sari shop? I understand its roaring business, but why not set up shop closer home?
4. Which leads me to the next question...what would be the average turn-over per day at A.S. Babu Sah?

Loose Thoughts on Getting Hitched

Ever since it first came out, over three years ago, I had mocked at the advertisement campaign for the Platinum Day of Love. A couple in an arranged marriage suddenly find love when the crowd at the railway station separates them for a few seconds.  The advert struck me as being clawingly sweet at best and utter nonsense at worst. Arranged marriages are practical. It’s your parents who have a love affair with another set of parents and the four well meaning individuals get you hitched with a man you barely know. A series of meetings, hugs, smiles and rituals later you are married. After that you wing it and figure a way to make it work.

Little did I know that my rather smug take on arranged marriages would back fire one day and I would be writing this post after meeting the man who I hope will be the love of my life. I have known Super Man (that’s what he will be called for the rest of this post and all future posts involving him) for exactly 29 days, 12 hours and 2 minutes (of course am kidding...we met about a month ago). Our first meeting involved so many people that my father had to actually book an Innova to transport the whole lot of us. And, that was only my side of the party. I was quickly told that I wouldn’t get three months to make up my mind as I remember negotiating with my father when the groom hunt started and no, the wedding cannot happen in December, it must happen right away, in March. My father is simply too tired and hopes to finally hang up his boots on the wedding scene, which has lasted an excruciating 6 years - the time it has taken him to marry off the two of us sisters.

Last week we attended a party where I got chatting with an old Parsi lady. Dapper in a chiffon salwar kameez, I was fascinated by her ability to not only make conversation with me but also keep pace with the information I exchanged about my work, life and interests, which are no doubt quite different from her own. Having been introduced as Super Man’s fiancé, the conversation naturally veered around to the wedding. Unknowingly perhaps, the lady let out a sigh of disbelief when I told her that I agreed to the match within a week of meeting him and that I had known him for less than a month. But she was hardly the first person who reacted this way. Somehow, all the friends and family that have been let into the ‘good news’ have been uniformly surprised. It has made me truly reflect on the perception that people seem to have about me. What were there expecting, I wonder, a torrid love affair with a completely inappropriate man? Maybe it has to do with the fact that I am at heart an incorrigible romantic. The kind that will read Wuthering Heights over and over and wish for the passionate Heathcliff to walk into my life. Or maybe I give off the air of being footloose? Or maybe everyone is simply looking for an appropriate reaction. I mean, let’s face it. “I am getting married” needs necessarily to evoke something better than “I am having a sandwich”.

I look around me at the life I have built in the last six years that I have spent by myself. Fortunately, I have moved a lot. Each year it’s been a new place and a new set of friends. I have travelled light, at least physically. This move will be different. I won’t grudge buying nice furniture instead of the make-dos and hand-me-downs that have made it possible for me to pick up and leave each time.

My final thoughts are on the day I made up my mind. I had spent a lot of time thinking through the precious week I had. The long conversations, pre-occupied moments and sleepless nights didn’t quite build up to the decision in the way that I expected it would. An hour before I was to decide, I was just as confused as when I started out. But I remember opening the door to him that evening when he had come to pick me up for a date. And I think it was that precise moment when it felt right. Clawingly sweet? Utter nonsense? Platinum day of love? I can feel my face pull into a grimace as I write. I suppose the incorrigible romantic in me is alive and kicking...