The lane was dingy.The shop small. But its beauteous display demanded attention and got it. Like a painting it hung. Majestic. Made of crushed silk, its muted pink offsetting its gold border, all five meters of it was sheer magic. One could stand and imagine it on a maiden statusque. The drape of it, giving her body a mesmerising allure akin to the beauty of a waterfall. Oh, that saree. On different days one could see different devotees, working women, students, young and old, even the odd beggar, stopping awestruck in admiration before it. Life with its myriad problems, came to a halt, as differnt women stood before it with stars in their eyes.
Why then, i wondered was it never sold ? Was its beauty so intimidating, modest clients didnt even dare to ask its price ? That day, I resolved to find out.
"Not for sale,ma'am," said the salesgirl, almost apologetically. When i persisted she told me to meet the owner of the shop the next day. Intrigued I left, certain that a poignant tale of tragedy awaited me. Maybe it was the rememberance of a sweetheart who was no more. But then why would it be hung in display ?
The next day, I was there at the appointed time. At the counter stood a woman of about fifty. Dressed in a saree herself, she was of a petite frame, dignified, and assessing me with her piercing eyes. "That saree is not for sale." she reiterated when i asked her about it. Sighing, she sat down and beckoned me to sit. "It was made for my daughter. For her marriage ceremony." Seeing the questioning look in my eyes, she sighed once more. Opening her drawer, she took out a photograph. The young girl who looked out at me stood arms akimbo, staring defiantly at the camera. She stood tall, handsome, proud, an amazonian queen.
Seeing the curiosity on my face, she went on, "she lives in the states, with her American partner. We are Jains. My husband's family was ostracised by the community for many years, before they forgave us her sins. The price was excommunication for her, a lifetime of anguish for us. You see, she is our only child. "
"Now that saree hangs there, i cant bear to part with it. It is a memento of my child that i can officially keep with me."
A thing of beauty, a sorrow forever..
Why then, i wondered was it never sold ? Was its beauty so intimidating, modest clients didnt even dare to ask its price ? That day, I resolved to find out.
"Not for sale,ma'am," said the salesgirl, almost apologetically. When i persisted she told me to meet the owner of the shop the next day. Intrigued I left, certain that a poignant tale of tragedy awaited me. Maybe it was the rememberance of a sweetheart who was no more. But then why would it be hung in display ?
The next day, I was there at the appointed time. At the counter stood a woman of about fifty. Dressed in a saree herself, she was of a petite frame, dignified, and assessing me with her piercing eyes. "That saree is not for sale." she reiterated when i asked her about it. Sighing, she sat down and beckoned me to sit. "It was made for my daughter. For her marriage ceremony." Seeing the questioning look in my eyes, she sighed once more. Opening her drawer, she took out a photograph. The young girl who looked out at me stood arms akimbo, staring defiantly at the camera. She stood tall, handsome, proud, an amazonian queen.
Seeing the curiosity on my face, she went on, "she lives in the states, with her American partner. We are Jains. My husband's family was ostracised by the community for many years, before they forgave us her sins. The price was excommunication for her, a lifetime of anguish for us. You see, she is our only child. "
"Now that saree hangs there, i cant bear to part with it. It is a memento of my child that i can officially keep with me."
A thing of beauty, a sorrow forever..
waah Maasi..what a splendid piece..love to read your stuff..
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