The Whole Nine Yards - An Ode

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 32; the thirty-second edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is 'An Untold Story'

A couple of weeks earlier, at the behest of our mothers, my husband and I performed a 'homa' at home. The priest who was going to guide us ,came home a couple of days earlier to brief us about the requirements, items to be bought and do’s and don’ts. As he was leaving, he looked disdainfully at the jeans I was wearing, just as a parent would look at a child who had brought home a ‘C’ grade. And then exclaimed, “You should wear a saree for the occasion.” I was miffed! I always wore a saree for special occasions. Incensed by the remark, it was then I decided to go the whole nine yards. Literally!

The nine yard saree, worn by Queens in days bygone and by women up to my grandmother’s generation, was now relegated to weddings (usually just the bride) and religious ceremonies. Few of my mother’s generations know how to wear it, let alone mine! Just as writers had advanced from the quill to the fountain pen to ball point pen and now the keyboard, women in India had advanced from the nine yard saree to six yard saree to salwar khameez to jeans.

It was a long and unwieldy garment. But I was determined to wear it, and not only that, I also decided to learn how to drape it. It was rather cumbersome to drape, with many tucks and folds, requiring a good amount of bending, twisting and turning. I almost broke into a sweat as if I had a gym workout! I fumbled the first time, but got it right on the second attempt. I looked at myself in the mirror; I felt like a stuffed doll, yet there was a subtle elegance to it. I was swept by a sense of nostalgia and inspired to pen an ode to the 'Nine yard saree'

 A fabric of nine yards/As Lustrous as the stars/Like sheen of a rose/Sometimes apricot with gold/Your tradition began in/The land of yore./Adorned by Laxmi/the warrior Queen of Jhansi,/With yardage billowing ,/Like a bolt of lightning/she rode to glory/protecting her territory./Raja Ravi Varma/In a World of Bohemia,/his muses draped/in velvety regalia;/Voluptuous and coy,/A graceful sight!/Sensuous as night./You were my grandmother’s livery/Together with finery/Exquisite as dreams,/But now replaced by/modern seams,/You’re just a part of a/bride’s trousseau/Not haute couture/Now Obscure and old/yours is /a story untold.

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My other mother

She came into my life when I was a year and a half old. With green tattoos on her forehead and forearm, nauwari (Maharashtrian nine yard sari), and cherubic moon face, she wafted in to our home, becoming an integral part of our lives for the next 20 years.

 

She had had a dismal life, and like most women of her times, never questioned but accepted her fate. She was married off at a very young age, as was common those days. Within a year, she had a son, who didn’t live beyond a few months and shortly, her husband followed suit. Considering her to be ill-fated, the in-laws threw her out. Already bereft of a mother, now widowed and childless, she had no place to go.

Luckily, her married older sister took her in and found her a job as a nanny. And when the family didn’t need her services anymore, she came to live with us as both my parents were working and needed someone to look after me. She soon endeared herself to all, friends and family, with her garrulous and affectionate nature.

We were bowled over by her culinary skills; she even mastered our South Indian cuisine, alien to her until then. I can still picture her sitting on the floor , turning the grinding stone with one hand and shoving rice and lentils with the other  until the two coagulated together to form a smooth batter of dosa, the quintessential South Indian delicacy.

She was my sole companion for five years until my sister came along. It was heartening to see the special bond she shared with my sister, having attended to her from the day she was born. One day, when my sister came home with a split forehead and blood pouring down her face (after being accidently hit by a swinging cricket bat), it was hard to tell who cried more.

She is now around 85 years old, suffering the brutalities of old-age, but still remembers every member of our extended family and enquires about each one of them by name. When we visit her in Bombay, where she now lives with her grand-nephew, she proudly calls the neighbours to come see her daughters.