Geetanjali Shree
(Translated from Hindi by Daisy Rockwell)
Forthcoming from Tilted Axis—UK, and Penguin—India
SOMETHING had moved inside the flat. He leaned over quickly, thinking less of him would make him less visible. A light turned on inside, and the darkness was deepening outside, but who would tell him that this was the reason it was less possible for him to be seen? Even if you don’t have a beard, a straw will stick in it if you’re feeling guilty! He leaned over in the attitude of a criminal, and then, ensuring that there was no one to the right or left of the road who might see him, he executed an acrobatic manoeuvre, jumping up to a higher branch. Here the foliage cover was thicker and he had a clear view of the flat.
His ridiculous sister had left the balcony open, and the whole house was lit up as though it were Diwali, so that anyone could ogle at her lifestyle under cover of darkness and leaves. She had never worried about peeping Toms. She was right there on display and had seated their mother on a swing in a dervish-type outfit, to make her a laughingstock. Swing swing. Look, everyone, have you ever seen such a lifestyle, and look, clothing that swishes as she walks, and Uff, what if Ma falls! She used to wear beautiful saris, tied them smartly, and now?
He began to remember her in saris. Which she has thrown away, he thought forlornly. And such a storm of grief arose in his heart that he grew exhausted and fell asleep.
The man slumbering in sari-memories was no less expert in the craft than any sari merchant. And so he began to unroll them all, bolt by bolt, the entire stock, in the forlorn courtyard of his mind, and since he was in a tree, he also began to hang them from the branches. There were the saris that Ma wore in his childhood, and then the ones he had bought for her on his official trips or transfers. Ma was Ma only in a sari. On the Dashashvamedh Ghat in Benares, descending the stairs from the Vishwanath Temple, with the other women, tiny clay lamps alight on her tray, wearing a silk temple sari from Mysore. It was vermilion, with a thin gold-striped border. She wore the pallu over her head, her face framed by the golden stripes. The women leaned down to set the lit diyas adrift in the water and the starry sky descended into the river, a shimmering Milky Way sparkling coquettishly. Ma lightly wiped her cheek with her pallu, and her son, sleeping in the tree, seemed to feel her buttery touch.
Then it transformed into a slap on the cheek. Which Ma had given him as she came out of the kitchen. He couldn’t remember the date, or the city, but the air was fragrant with the delicious scent of pakoras frying in mustard oil. It was rice and karhi day. Amma had filled a small bowl with pakoras for him, but the tongue is the tongue and the hand is the hand, and the feet the feet, and her Bade still small. He simply had to return to the kitchen again and again and grab a fistful of pakoras from the platter. Piping hot, tender and fluffy, here and there a crispy beak or tail protruding. Chomp chomp. Amma came back and saw; dragging him by a bush-shirted arm, she cried, And what will be left for the karhi? You’re spoiling dinner for everyone else! She’d slapped him on the cheek with a touch that felt so sweet as he sat in the tree, as soft as a Mysore pallu. But that day she’d been wearing a cotton sari, and she’d wrapped the pallu around her front and stuffed it in at the waist, making her look like a warrior heroine as she patted her heated face at times, and smacked her little Bade at others.
The son, sleeping in the tree, rested his hand lovingly upon his cheek.
By then, the Crowess had returned to the tree with the gang of youngsters.
We don’t care if you don’t understand anything else, but do learn about the saris, the elders crowspered.
The young crows, eager to attain knowledge, took out their notepads and each ripped out a feather for a quill, dunked it in tree sap, wrote down name and date, and sat at the ready.
First, they all wrote: He is sleeping.
It was a strange sight in the tree: a human, sleeping with his hand on his cheek, and loads of crows gathered about him like students, seated on each branch in rows as they took notes, listening to the words in his mind. That is, a crow was seated on every branch. The Crowess was their preceptor, and when they didn’t understand something the sleeping man was thinking, she’d clarify. Saris unfurled, softly swinging from branches. The crows watched in amazement.
His heart-whispers unspooled onwards.
And eventually, a grown Bade had begun to bring saris for Amma. When she heard he was going to Kota, Ma herself had asked for one of the famous Kota weave saris, the Kota Doria. It was a light calf colour, overlaid in checks of the same shade, with a thin gold brocade border. Was I right to get white, Bade had said, questioning himself, but it was so lovely, and it was not mourning white. Ma used to wear the sari on summer evenings, when she strolled out to the cantonment with Papa, he remembered. Sometimes Brigadier Dhillon would ring up and invite the two of them to dinner with his parents in the cantonment.
Kota thread, the crows crowspered to one another.
Then they noticed a magenta sari bolt that had just unrolled by Bade’s mind. The whole tree was absolutely dazzled.
That was a Patola sari, the son remembered.
A Patola, the crows were breathless in admiration. Take a look at that colour, wow!
It had been printed with a design of ecstatic maidens dancing the raas leela—A Nairkunj-patterned sari, Bade remembered. He’d got it from Charminar in Hyderabad. He’d bought one for his wife too, but she’d been more delighted by Ma’s. Ma had said, You wear it, how can an old mare like me wear something so dancy-flirty? But Bade had insisted she wear it, and how darling she had looked. It must have been his wife’s burning envy that had turned into sparks and burnt a few holes in it when the washerman had pressed it with a hot iron. Even so, Ma continued to wear it after mending those holes. And for at least three or four years, his wife would ask for one just like it every time he went on a business trip, or if anyone was coming or going from Hyderabad. As though that Nairkunj consumed her with envy both waking and sleeping. Perhaps now it’s hanging in her closet, but it must be even more threadbare by now.
But no sari was as regal as the Gadwal, he said in his thoughts.
Regal, a young lady crow noted, thinking this to be a type of sari.
It’s a Gadwal, silly owl, her elder sister scolded.
I’m a crow, not an owl, she retorted, rolling her eyes.
As he unfolded the sari in the tree, Bade began to think, See, thanks to Ma, I had the chance to learn about the skills of weavers. How many men were likely to know what a Gadwal sari looked like? The whole sari is cotton, but the pallu and border are silk, embroidered with gold and silver threads. This one was a yellow sari, with a parrot green pallu, and it was—Wow! Lovely!—loaded down with mangoes in every ripple and curve. They were printed from designs on blocks of stone and wood carved in the Gadwa region of Andhra.
At this, Bade’s thoughts turned to mangoes, the juice of which he’d spilled on Ma’s Pochampally Ikkat sari. Then, too, Bade had been small, and he’d wept mightily. Ma had kept trying to calm him, saying, Look, son, there are so many colours in this sari: See? Maroon, dark red, henna, turmeric—the design blends them all together, so the stains don’t even show. Whenever Ma wore that sari, little Bade performed a circumambulation about her, holding out portions of the sari, looking for where the mango juice had spilled, but he couldn’t distinguish it from the design, and everyone teased him for his anxious obsession, but he continued to worry. And the Kalamkari…
Kalamkari, one crow girl cried, and began scribbling away.
Before that Pochampally, and after that, Kanjivaram, the Crowess with cow’s eyes spoke softly, as though completing a multiplication table.
How did you know beforehand? Jackanapes, who was sitting nearby, asked with excitement.
Shhhshshsshh, she motioned and just smiled.
She wore Kalamkari saris quite a bit, our mother. He had seen the artisans tie hairs to a bamboo stalk to make brushes for painting mosaic patterns on these saris. Call them artists, Ma had scolded. Those saris truly were something. The colours were all unique and came from natural materials. Brown, dark red, deep copper. They came from roots, betel nut, metal, copper, turmeric, flowers, leaves, and there was even indigo in one, What essence must that have been made from? I’ve forgotten if I ever knew. And Kanjivaram.
At which Jackanapes glanced with surprise at Crowess. Wow, how did you crow that out beforehand? he asked, and she smiled a secret smile.
She had a black Kanjivaram, with the story of Ram and Sita depicted in white all over it. So full of designs, yet simple and elegant at the same time.
Because there’s no colour like black, Crowess explained to the youths. Aha! everyone chorused back.
They carefully stroked the lovely sari as it swayed from a branch.
Not with the beak, she hissed. So they did with their wings.
He’d bought it for two thousand rupees. His first trip to the south. He’d also bought one for his wife, but she would also borrow and wear the one he’d brought for Amma. It was very expensive for those days. But even more costly than that was the Paithani sari.
Pathaan, a crow crowed.
Pathaani, a girl crow corrected.
Oho, the senior lady crow hushed them both… P A I T H A N I.
He’d found it in Vadodara at the home of the Gaekwad family. A man had come from Aurangabad bearing a bundle of saris on his head. After all, where else could you find a better Paithani sari than from a royal family? Show him this one, the Rani said, pushing it towards him. Take it for your wife. For mother too, he had thought. The Baangri peacock one, or this lotus one, or this Ashavali. The sari seller told him that each and every fibre of those saris was spun and woven by hand. It takes a year and a half to make one sari, Sahib. I’ll reduce the price for you, since you are the guest of Her Highness. He picked a purple one, and one grass-green.
This too was hung from the tree, and one of the crow students carefully wrapped it in leaves so it wouldn’t get caught on a pointy twig and tear.
Then everyone turned and gazed at Bade with curiosity, because he’d begun to laugh as he recalled his trip to Tamil Nadu. He’d been driving along and had chanced to see a brick-red sari displayed in a shop window along the way. He’d asked the driver to stop, so he could just take a look, and gone inside to ask about it. The salesgirl had said brusquely in English, No sale. Damage. He was about to turn away, but his heart pulled him back. Please show it to me, he said. Damage, damage! the girl had shouted, as though speaking to a deaf person. But I can look at it! he yelled back. The girl looked at him as if she would swallow whole this time-wasting fool. She removed the sari from the window and practically flung it in his face. Bade could tell right away that this was one amazing sari. Tamil Nadu silk. The colour of red bricks. Peacocks all over and a den of lions on the pallu. Such fine work and not a single empty space. But so serene nonetheless. Such high quality. And the silk so refined. He touched it, weighed it, caressed it, put it down, then picked it up again and asked, How much? The girl was like, this guy is nuts. Damage! she now shrieked as though handing down a sentence, and began pointing out the damage to him: There’s a tear from here to here; here too, it’s ripped; here’s another. But Bade had already understood that this was the only sari of its kind in the entire world. No problem. And in that era of low prices, and for a reduced rate at that, he still had to pay a few thousand rupees for it. Oh my, oh my, but that sari! His mother had worn it and so had his beloved wife. The tears were mended. The mending in those days was brilliant. Ma used to roll it up like a small carpet, then wrap another sari around it, then wrap that in paper and tie a ribbon around it and stand it up in the wardrobe so it wouldn’t get torn any further.
At this, Bade suddenly remembered the sari that had been wrapped around that sari. It was made of tissue. The colour of clouds, with gold dissolving into it. Real gold. So fantastic, when he hung it from a branch the crows went wild with rapture: Gold!
That’s right, the elders explained. People even have that kind of sari melted down to extract the gold.
We would never do such an inexcusable thing, said one, touching it, enchanted.
Careful! another yelled. This one will tear too.
Hey, look at this one, another crow directed everyone’s attention elsewhere, to where the son was very carefully unfolding a different style of sari. A small one.
What does his remembering heart say?
The crows began to listen.
This one I did not buy. I had seen it in the temple of the Tamil minister’s wife. Her father performed traditional ancestral priestly duties there. It was a sari used to dress the goddess. And what should happen but that I took a liking to that one as well. That too was red, but not at all showy.
Crowy? In a temple? one crow asked with astonishment.
Not crowy, showy, another attempted to explain.
I’ll explain; first listen, Crowess interjected. Take a look at it.
The sari was covered with golden checks.
It was rather narrow, Bade thought, but Ma was delighted, and she paired it with another sari so it would be long enough to wear. Truly, he remarked to himself in a congratulatory tone, I had no idea what a sari aficionado I was!
Crowess now explained this to the little ones: The language that rings out all around you fills your unconscious mind, and then shocks you and makes you wonder When did I learn all this? That is why one should wander about where people speak well.
Bade’s sari class was going swimmingly. It was altogether separate from the sight across the way, inside his sister’s flat, which he had climbed up in the tree to spy on. He was unfurling sari-wrapped memories in an orderly fashion in his slumberous state, hanging them up in the tree one by one. His students were learning and absolutely ecstatic themselves, and his heart-whispers continued anon.
It suddenly occurred to sleeping Bade’s heart that there had been a kind of sari-tug-of-war going on. His wife always liked the saris he brought for his mother better than her own. She would without fail ask for them some day or other and wear them, but she would insist that Ma wear them once, to inaugurate them, so they would officially be Ma’s; after that, she would wear them. Sometimes Ma would say, Why don’t you keep it now? because his wife would step all over the edge of her saris in high heels, since she wore her saris flush with the ground, and then there would be holes in the border. For her part, his wife complained that all the sari blouses were cut to Ma’s measurements, so she had to make do by mixing and matching. The sari conflagration between the mother and daughter-in-law was of an on-going nature. Their household always resounded with it and both would dress up on special occasions, although Ma was more inclined to plain saris, and she had started wearing less colourful ones even when his father was still alive.
Oh, he suddenly remembered, that deep blue sari I brought from Shantiniketan. It was a designer sari from Gayatri ji’s business. It had a print of Mughal design. His wife had been with him and she had chosen it, saying, Ma doesn’t wear the over-colourful ones as much. It was almost blue-black; printed with kohl-black wine goblets. How dull it is, said Bade, finding fault, but Ma had liked it very much. She had worn it to an awards ceremony, where she’d handed out prizes to the soldiers and their wives. There were even photos of her in that sari.
That sari is completely different! The crows gazed upon it admiringly. Crowess reached out a wing and draped it over a lower branch.
In the heat of the debate that Monday evening—or was it a Tuesday?—they had waved their wings and feet about animatedly, but now, under the tutelage of Aunty Crowess, they climbed into the tree and began to gaze calmly upon the saris of all types as these unfurled from the son’s heart. They were astonished at the variety. Several of them wished that crows could swan about in such elegant attire, but they were only crows, after all.
And so, as night fell, a sari mood spread across the tree. A sleeping person is automatically enriched by dreams where he sees sights about which he has no idea when conscious. That is to say, some saris about which perhaps he never even knew also fluttered into view. On top of that, there were the sympathetic crows, eager to listen to the heart-whispers. Now who could stop the tree from becoming a full-blown festival? Bade’s heart billowed along with the lovely saris, and he slept comfortably upon a branch. In the meantime, surely by mistake on the part of some municipal authority in the Forestry Department, reasonably attractive streetlights lit up, and the countless silk and cotton saris hanging from the tree twinkled spectacularly in the pleasing light of these soft outdoor bulbs. And the crows touched the saris, examined them up close, even wrapped themselves in them, becoming so mad for them they reeled and spun like tops. And they marvelled: Look at that, the tie-dye! And the gold and silver embroidery of the zardosi, and the Bandhej, the Tanchoi, the Ikkat, the Ajarakh, the Jaamdaani; the one with chikan-work, the Chanderi, the Madhubani, the Maheshwari, the Mooga, the Kosaa, and that Baalucheri that has women smoking hookahs on it, and that white Dhakai, that Tasar from Bhagalpur, that Bengali Shantipuri made on a handloom, and this one from Bastar that’s sandal-coloured with drums printed on it and was cut up later and turned into dupattas, and this one is just as lovely, a Lugda brought from Daang, light pink with a turquoise border—a bit short, but Ma wore it quite often at home; the colour was not fast, and then my sister, who only likes unstylish villager-type clothing anyway took it away—but, of course, she is patently ridiculous…
Patently, the crows noted.
Paithani, Crowess said sternly.
We already got that one. A crow picked up his notepad and showed her. Then he stopped, and placing a wing on his cheek, in the attitude of a promising student, turned to the cow-eyed Crowess and asked, But why, Aunty? Why did she renounce such beautiful saris and start dressing in sacks?
Because, child, she has peeled away all her outer layers, and now she is opening the inner ones.
Just at that moment, the son, who had been gazing upon his mother’s former self layered in saris, awoke with a start, as though recalling the mono-layered attire of the new Ma. Quickly he began brushing off his own clothing, in which all sorts of ants had begun to frolic. Actually, one must crush them by rubbing them, thus killing two birds—i.e., ants and mosquitoes—with one stone. He had not been taught this in school, nor at university.
What’s this that’s happened? Bade glanced at his watch and, stepping from one branch to another, tangling and untangling himself among the billowing saris, jumped down. A whirlwind of saris arose in which the Tanchoi, Tangail, Gadwal, Benarsi, Maheshwari, Kantha, Pochampally, Kattak, Balucheri, the embroidered one…sprung up anew and a shimmering cloud of dust flew all about, glistening like beads of sweat.
But Bade had climbed down. He glared angrily up at his sister’s flat. He could see Ma walking about, swish-swish.
Good God, her foot will get caught in something. She’ll fall! he muttered.
And she did fall. But not right then.
**********
Notes The drawings by Manjula Padmanaabhan are not part of the novel. -The Beacon wishes to thank Manjula Padmanabhan for these sketches
Geetanjali Shree has written five novels – Mai, Hamara Sheher Us Baras, Tirohit, Khali Jagah and Ret Samadhi – and five anthologies of short stories in Hindi. She has also written Between Two Worlds: An Intellectual Biography of Premchand in English. Her stories and novels have been translated into French, German, English ,Urdu, Polish, Serbian and Japanese as well as in other Indian languages. She has received various awards for her contribution to Hindi literature and has been invited for many reading tours and residencies in countries such as the UK, France, Switzerland, Germany, Japan, Iceland, Korea, and of course in India. The English translation of Mai won the Sahitya Academy Award. Shree ‘s sixth novel titled Sah-sa is due shortly. Apart from her fiction in Hindi, her choice of language for literary expression, Shree also writes scripts for theatre, mainly with the group Vivadi, which is based in Delhi and of which she is a founding member. Her own writings too have been adapted for the stage by distinguished directors at the NSD. She writes essays in English and Hindi for various publications. She lives in New Delhi, India
Daisy Rockwell is an artist, writer, and translator, whose translations from Hindi include works by Krishna Sobti, Khadija Mastur,Upendranath Ashk, and Bhisham Sahni.Among other works, “Taste” a novel.
Manjula Padmanabhan (b. 1953), is an author, playwright, artist and cartoonist. She grew up in Europe and South Asia, returning to India as a teenager. Her plays include LIGHTS OUT and the MATING GAME SHOW. Her play HARVEST won the first ever Onassis Award for Theatre, in 1997, in Greece. She writes a weekly column and draws a weekly comic strip in Chennai's "Business Line". Her books include UNPRINCESS, GETTING THERE and THE ISLAND OF LOST GIRLS. She lives in the US, with a home in New Delhi.
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