My Grandmother's Almira Chapter 1

PREFACE

Ashwini and Sarita were lured by the dazzle of the centuries-old Paithani sari from their home state, often referred to as a poem in silk and gold. Mesmerized by the timeless elegance and rich history of the Paithani, Ashwini and Sarita decided to head from Singapore to Paithan, a sleepy forgotten town on the banks of the Godavari River in the heart of the Western state of Maharashtra** in India. Paithan became the starting point for their journey, to trace the sojourn of the sari from the time of the ancient Satavahana dynasty two thousand years ago, through the royal Mughal and Peshwa eras to the present. Along the way, the journey, which begins as a casual interest between two expatriates, evolves into a search for their own identity, a desire to learn more about their Maharashtrian roots and culture. Both discover there is so much woven amidst the folds of the Patihani sari which they unravel as they traverse the countryside. From the world famous frescoes of Ajanta to the dusty by lanes of Paithan town, grandmas stories, folklore, myths and legends, ragas* of varying moods, all soft as the sari's silk, wrap them with a sense of belonging and pride, and opens doors to the art, traditions and unique culture of their state.

**A state in Western India *ragas: series of musical notes that create a melody
Page 1

My Grandmother's Almira Chapter 1

Prologue

The river flows, brimming with spirituality, a serene sheet of shimmer. This is where I was born, alongside the banks of the Godavari, in the town of Paithan. My journey began here and like this tranquil river, I too traversed through the annals of history, flourishing under the patronage of the dynasties that ruled. I was created two thousand years ago, on the golden looms of the Satavahana weavers, who bestowed me with eternal elegance that would sustain me through the centuries. Its been a long journey, sometimes arduous, other times, free flowing. But I have endured and my dazzle remains intact. The city of my birth used to be called Pratishthan, or Great City back then. Glittering with palaces and kings, it was a prosperous trading centre, from where fabrics, along with spices, were traded for gems and gold with the Greeks and Romans. Those merchants knew what they wanted; the finesse and glory of my sheen was enough to bewitch many far and near. It doesnt surprise me that they would mention Pratishthan in their historical records, including the famous Greek book Periplus Maris Erytharaei, written by an intrepid Greek scholar. Many a poet and artist have been inspired by my beauty. Even the great voyager and adventurer Marco Polo couldnt escape my charms. He said this about me: It is as fine as a spiders web and Kings and Queens of any country will take pride in wearing it. I have had many avatars during the centuries, as each dynasty embraced me as their own. I am deeply grateful for the patronage I received from royalty. Aurangzeb, the great Mughal Emperor named me Aurangzebi and a Nizam princess championed me as Nilofer. I
Page 2

My Grandmother's Almira Chapter 1

was at my peak during the Peshwa Rule and the great Peshwai Emperor Madhavrao Peshwa constantly wore me as a stole or shela on his shoulder. While I may not enjoy the lofty status from earlier centuries, I am happy to be considered an heirloom by generations of Maharashtrian families. Despite the vagaries and vicissitudes of history, I feel safe in the present. Even today, I am accorded a level of respect and dignity, and no trousseau is considered complete without my presence. When a new Maharashtrian bride drapes me on her shoulders, it is believed she has received the blessings of her elders. I know the path ahead is strewn with challenges, and for the first time I face a daunting roadblock in the form of technology. If I can embrace modernity with humility, accommodate changes within my folds and yet retain my core, I will be assured of my place in the centuries to come.

Page 3

My Grandmother's Almira Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Sarita Alurkar Sriram

A Wedding and a Wake up Call

Page 4

My Grandmother's Almira Chapter 1

Asavali Vine leaf motif

Nature held in veneration Nature in all its winsomeness The charm of flowers and leaves Intertwined

Page 5

My Grandmother's Almira Chapter 1

There are moments when I hold the Paithani Close to my heart as close can be And its soft and silken caress Brings my Grandma back to me The intervening years then vanish Times broken thread runs whole again O Golden Squares of my Grandmas sari Tell Grandma of my well being then.

(Translated from Shanta Shelkes poem Paithani originally written in the Marathi language.)

Young Laxmi ran through the old wada, calling out for her mother. Her voice was childlike, not unlike an eight year old, but yet it carried the weighty authority only aristocracy can bestow. Her voice echoed through their ancestral courtyard home, ricocheting off the thick stone walls. The Peshwas, who had captured their town and the fort a few months ago, had now firmly established their stranglehold over Dharpur. Laxmi could feel the tension. Tomorrow, Savitri Tai, her older sister, would wed Parshuram Balaji, the Peshwa Prince. Her trousseau was full of sparkling gems and luminous saris. There was one peacock blue silk sari that young Laxmi couldnt take her eyes off. Savitri Taihad even allowed her to touch it, ever so briefly, a fleeting caress of silk over her soft hands. Savitritai would take the Paithani dotted with Bangdi Mor buttis, with her to her new home, to the palace where she would belong. A queen draped in royalty.

Page 6

My Grandmother's Almira Chapter 1

Pune

So what are you wearing for Rashmis wedding tomorrow, Sarita? I looked up at my aunt Jayashri Kaku (loosely translated as Aunt) as I eagerly took my third helping of sabudana khichdi- a savoury sago delicacy from my home state, which had this unfailing ability of sending me into raptures every time the glistening little balls (of sago) made contact with my palate. I almost wished Rukminibai, our longtime household helper, did not make it so well. Yes, I was wondering, Jayashri Kaku. Ive brought my green and yellow Chanderi sariyou remember the one my Mum bought from the chanderiwalla- that travelling sari trader who came home with that large bundle of saris on his back, just before my wedding? Can you believe that was over 20 years ago! Pretty sari but nothing like blingy clingy saris women are wearing in India these days. Im going to look like a fossil. I have some nice Banarasi crepes which are not blingy, but do drape well. See if you like any. Theyre over there, in Ajis cupboard. The invitation to peek into my grandmas cupboard was very tempting. My grandma had been a sprightly, feisty old lady, whose formidable shadow continued to loom large over our household, even though five years had passed since she left us. Aji had always been very special to me. There were countless memories of her and me together- when I was a child, or during my University days when I lived with her, and later, when she became a proud great grandmother to my children. The images came flooding back to me as I approached her big wooden cupboard. Jayashri Kakus belongings had taken over the top shelf of Ajis cupboard. But the shelf
Page 7

My Grandmother's Almira Chapter 1

below was almost intact, full of neatly folded muslin saris, 9 yards long, all soft as a babys bottom and light as a feather. In her later years, Aji had felt that most saris felt too heavy on her by- then- frail body. My fingers gravitated towards the bottom shelf, running my hands over a magenta checked sari that Aji used to wear often, mostly for special occasions. I stared longingly at the saris, almost hoping Aji would appear out of nowhere. She had been gone far too long. Just then, a glimmer from deep inside the cupboard attracted my attention. I bent over to check the source of this luminous glow and pulled it out, staring at the sheer gold fabric in my hand. Little woven peacocks strutted across a brilliant-orange and red sari, the border of which was woven to perfection in gold, giving it a honeycomb like appearance. Just then, Jayashri Kaku walked in. Oh, you found that? Thats Ajis Paithani. The only silk sari she didnt give away to her daughter and daughters in law when she decided not to wear silk saris any more. I did ask her once and she mumbled something about it being the sari that Ajoba had bought her with his first salary and she wanted it to stay with her for a little while longer. Its beautiful, I whispered. I was just wondering why I had never seen her wearing it. Oh she did, said Jayashri Kaku. For many special occasions in the family your fathers wedding, my wedding she always used to say owning a Paithani is a treat, because it was meant for royalty and so she used hers sparingly. I think it had a great significance for her, since Paithanis were and are expensive and that Ajoba had actually spent at least half his meagre salary to buy such a special sari for her. Sarita, why dont you wear it? Shed have been so happy to see you wearing it. You were after all her first born, one of her favourite grandchildren. Oh wait, didnt you say you were looking for modern sari? I held the Paithani close to my heart, wishing I could hug it forever. Ill wear it, I said. I havent seen a more beautiful sari. I have a gold blouse that will work well with it. Its almost 10 am, time to take a shower and get ready for the day. I walked into my room and hurriedly wiped the tears that were beginning to well in my eyes. Its been a hectic 24 hours. Rashmi, our dear friend from college, is getting married, and looking every bit the radiant bride. As the third part of a triumvirate that lived in each others pockets all through college, Rashmi, Ashwini and I were inseparable. Twenty years
Page 8

My Grandmother's Almira Chapter 1

had passed, and we remained close, through Rashmis failed first marriage and her painful divorce ten years ago. When she moved to Singapore right after, it only cemented a friendship that had withstood the test of time. Rashmi decided to tie the knot with Gary six months ago and her aging parents only wish had been that they have a traditional Maharashtrian wedding in Pune for their daughter and her American bridegroom. Marigolds and jasmine drape the mandap in a glorious colour-burst. As we finally sit, cross-legged, on the fringes of the flower-decked stage, in what seemed like the first time in twenty-four hours, the flurry of silks around us indicates the rituals are to begin soon. We clutch the coloured rice grains that we have been handed, tightly in our palms, afraid they may trickle out, and wait in hushed anticipation, allowing the magic of the moment to settle upon us. Sitting in a small karyalaya (wedding hall) in a tiny bylane in Narayan Peth, in the heart of Punes old quarter, we couldnt be further removed from the cool confines of our cushioned lives in Singapore. Was it just two days ago that Ashwini and I had been grumbling about the heat as we tried to convince each other wed be better off wearing the more practical salwar kameez (pant and tunic) than swathes of sari, at the wedding? Comfortably smug in our Westernized avatars, a smooth ride from swanky Singapore to congested Pune, the demands of tradition had felt rather onerous and weighty. The May heat was pulverizing any romantic idealism we may have felt about attending our dear friends wedding in our favorite festive finery. But when Rashmi in her no-nonsense manner told us we would stick out like spoilt bratty NRIs if we chose to don salwar kameezes at a traditional wedding, we made our decision pretty quickly. I ended up wearing a peach silk sari that Jayashri Kaku insisted looked good on me and would be easy to manage. Ashwini, too, had opted for a lightweight silk sari and was looking resplendent in it, even though she kept worrying that it was unraveling every time she moved! She too had been unable to take her eyes off my grandmas kapila red Paithani, which I decided to hold off wearing, thinking perhaps, it might be too cumbersome for the long day ahead. And so here we were, clad in our silken swathes, sipping bottled water, while keeping a sharp eye on our slippers, spectators to the lively bustle that so defines an Indian wedding. The air perfumed with incense and flowers was beginning to have a hypnotic effect and as the pandit took his place in front of the bride and bridegroom, the heat and grime evaporated and
Page 9

My Grandmother's Almira Chapter 1

slowly, almost seductively, we were drawn into a world, so utterly different from the one we had left behind. Sa, did you notice how many Paithani saris there are in this hall. Im assuming they are Paithanis. Didnt realize how stunning a sari it is, Ashwini whispered. Yes, they are definitely Paithanis, Sarita nodded. We looked around at a colour-burst of Paithanis shimmering all around us, the morning light that was streaming from a few windows, bouncing off the golden sheen of the pallus (end piece). From the kalash (auspicious pot) on the Paithani pallu worn by the bride, to the one placed in the mandap, imagery and symbolism abounded. As the pandit begins reciting the shlokas, (religious chants) both in Marathi and in English, the simplicity of the Maharashtrian wedding caught our eye. From the graceful nath, the nose accessory worn by the bride, to the subtle pearl-studded kudis (earrings) to the choker-like chinchpetis (necklace), the jewelry was minimum, with little over-the-top display of ostentation. We watched Rashmis mother drape her mother in laws eighty-year old Paithani shela or stole around her daughters bridal shoulders, a simple action that weighed heavy with history. While Ashwini and I shared a common heritage inherited by virtue of geography, there are so many missing links, so many unanswered questions. In our near-perfect sculpted lives, we had lost the connection to our incredibly rich roots. We belonged, yet we were outsiders. It was a moment of reckoning neither one of us had anticipated. Our thoughts were interrupted as the tuneful chanting of the Mangalashtak or the eight verses filled the air. We took our positions behind Rashmi, who looked ravishing in a turmeric yellow Paithani, the sari adorned with eye-catching parrot motifs on a golden border. Typical of any Maharashtrian wedding is the suspenseful White Cloth- the great divider, the Antar Path, that is placed between bride and bridegroom, which separates them and prevents them from seeing each other, till the singing of the Mangalashtak is complete. As soon as the singing stops, the cloth is removed with a flourish, among much applause and cheers, and we are all then required to shower the couple with the red and yellow Akshata (unbroken rice). Rashmi, every bit the blushing bride, garlands Gary and vice versa and both take seven rounds around the holy fire. Maharashtrian weddings are generally a simple, austere affair, without the boisterous, social nature of weddings from North India. But there are some unique customs however,
Page 10

My Grandmother's Almira Chapter 1

that lighten the solemn mood. We cant help but smile at an uncharacteristically shy Rashmi, attempting to recite an Ukhana- a rhyming couplet, specially composed by family members, where the bride and groom utter each others names in a verse form. There is a lot of laughing and lighthearted banter, mainly from the senior citizens who seem to derive the most pleasure from this quaint little ritual. Gary really seems to be having fun, says Ashwini with a laugh. I know! He has had that benign smile on his face from the time he set foot inside the hall this morning! Gary is quite the Indophile, having spent six months in Benares some years back, learning to play the sitar. Indian weddings can be intensely demanding, and we wonder if Gary is being indulgent, or just plain patient! Our eyes were back on Rashmi, who looked remarkably calm and patient, despite all the instructions the pandit was throwing at the couple in rapid fire. Her sari is really exquisite, said Ashwini. I love the parrots motifs all over her Paithani, feel like theyre enjoying the rituals too. We sat there in silence, the drone of the pandits verses, which had started again, drifting into the distance. Jayashri Kaku told me that warrior princesses in the past wore Paithanis, I whispered to Ashwini, realizing that my mind had wandered back to Ajis cupboard and the Paithani sari tucked within. I can just visualize you as Ahilyabai Holkar -warrior princess on a horse, dressed in a dazzling silk sari, says Ashwini. I laugh at the thought. Yes, that was me, many births ago.

Page 11

My Grandmother's Almira Chapter 1

Singapore

Welcome back, girls, how was the wedding? We were all having lunch at PS Caf to celebrate Rohinis birthday. A tinkle of glasses and relaxed laughter filled the chic Dempsey Road eatery on a summery afternoon. Nestled in a leafy pocket of Singapore, the caf is a hot spot among expats, its lush green al fresco a refreshing respite from the sultry humidity. It was really fun, said Ashwini. Rashmi looked gorgeous. So did Gary, I have to say. I must ask Rashmi to show me the photos, said Priya. I wish I could have gone to Pune for the wedding, but there was just too much going on with the kids here. So what did you wear? asked Rohini. We ended up wearing the less heavy saris, because of the heat, I said. But next year, theres a family wedding, and Im definitely going to wear a Paithani. Paithani. Thats the sari from Madhya Pradesh, no? said Divya. I looked at Ashwini, sitting across the table from me. She almost spluttered over her cappuccino. Sweetie, the Paithani is from Maharashtra. Oh, haan, sorry I got confused. Vaise, I only know the Kanjeevaramand of course my georgettes, said Divya. I think the blouses these days are awesome. Barely there and its sheer will power that keeps the fabric together, said Rohini. Everyone laughed.
Page 12

My Grandmother's Almira Chapter 1

Girls, anyone for dessert? Lets get a few and share. The profiteroles and mud pie are to die for. A little while later, as Ashwini and I drove off together, Ashwini could barely contain herself. Did you even hear that? I cant believe people dont know where Paithani is from! I dont believe that either Ashwini or I realized at that moment, that Divyas innocuous statement had actually stirred up our cultural conscience, and would mark the beginning of our journey through the passage of history of our home state.

Page 13

My Grandmother's Almira Chapter 1

Mangalashtak 8 verses where the priest requests all Gods, Goddesses and the planets to bless the couple with a happy and healthy married life (in the Marathi language) Gotre bhinna parasparahuni tashi Ki bhinna jyaanchi kule Jeeve ekchi hoti ti vara vadhu Aa janma jyaacha mule Te ye esh krupe ghaduni sadani Mangalya Vaivahik Daampatya Chiranitya Shankar Krupe Shubh Mangal saavdhan Two different clans coming together Two different families The bride and groom come together as one in this life They come together because of Divine grace for a happy married life For a life blessed forever by Lord Shankar Let us wish them happiness

Raga Chayanat (an evening raga that conveys yearning)

Patiya le jaao piya san mori Pathikwa sun le ho batiya mori

Beg hi aao chatur sundarwa Katat na jaat din raat mori re

Take this letter to my beloved Oh traveller, do heed what I say Beloved, please come back ,oh beautiful one My days and nights are empty without you

Page 14