Seduced By The Sari

At my first workplace, two women, recent IIM (Indian Institute of Management) graduates, and I, a lesser graduate content with a Bachelor of Arts degree, wore saris to work every single day. We did not belong to the bohemian creative department of the hefty advertising agency located in an antiquated building in the centre of Bombay’s (now Mumbai) Fort district. No jeans and T-shirts or banana skirts — still fashionable in the ’80s — for us. We were part of the account planning team and we were meant to portray a seriousness equal to that of the men who filled it and the management divisions, in mundane grey flannels and white or blue shirts that apparently carried the swag of importance. My mostly cotton saris, with the perfectly matching 2x2 rubia blouses, stitched by my local, dhoti-clad tailor, Pannalal, were meant to carry the gravitas of male office wear. 

The saris elevated us a tad in the corporate hierarchy, bringing that slight element of formality that the creative director’s faded blue jeans couldn’t notch up. Pairing them with three- or four-inch high heel shoes also helped. So, when I looked into the elevator mirror as it landed on the office floor, I saw a tall sculpted column of fabric and, automatically, my nose tilted upwards as if to elongate the towering effect further. And, although I was not the author of the famous Air India hoarding every month, the airline being the company’s most valued client, my Venkatagiris, Maheshwaris, Kotas and Chanderis injected the much-needed sense of confidence that I required to help me negotiate the professional world and its ways. I didn’t want to feel fashionable or stylish, only like somebody with indisputable self-worth, and I found it in the sari. This was Power Dressing 101 for even the most timorous entrant to the corporate world. The sari has since become a powerful public statement in the world of politics. In late 2023, the G20 summit in Delhi saw several women — leaders or their spouses — sporting the drape in its most common avatar. 

I developed a dependency on the sari that was like the dependency on appreciation from a mother or a loved one. This need had me constantly scouting handloom exhibitions at Coomaraswamy Hall or the World Trade Centre Mumbai for unique pieces woven by third- and fourth-generation master craftsmen and artisans from around the country. Vama, which until recently housed a cluster of high-street brands, was one of Bombay’s early concept stores and also a favourite hunting ground, as was Kala Niketan, the sari haven on Marine Lines. It used to be a saris-only shop and its wide windows displayed sari-clad mannequins with hourglass figures, Waheeda Rehman (or Saira Banu or Sadhana) bouffants and well-defined navels etched into the fibreglass. Despite the off-shoulder gowns strutted by fashion-forward women at the time, these mannequins carried subversive messages about the lure of the navel that could outdo an exposed shoulder in terms of potential sensuality. As I am someone who wears clothing to conceal rather than reveal, this inherent sexual characteristic of the sari drape was of little interest to me, and these shop window displays became merely an addition to the visual memorabilia that shaped Bombay for me.

I was quite comfortable with what the sari provided me at this point in my life, and that was the feeling of being a working woman, a worthy addition to the modern Indian workforce. For me, the midriff reveal, between the blouse and the petticoat which held up the draped sari, did not in any way cause the embarrassment of exposure that lay in a mini crop top paired with jeans. I could easily spread my pallu all the way across my stomach, opening it up like a fan, before throwing the loose end over my left shoulder. In the film Chameli (2003), Kareena Kapoor’s navel, exposed throughout the film, became as much of a protagonist as her deep-red sari which seamlessly blended into the bindaas persona consonant with her role. The sari allows the interplay between bashfulness and audacity as suited to your character, both in reel and real life. As seen in Kim Kardashian’s scarlet body con drape by Manish Malhotra, when she sashayed in for a mega wedding earlier last year. Or in Alia Bhatt’s sari-like custom Gucci gown on the Cannes red carpet this year.

In the evenings, at client soirées, for that touch of drama, I could gently let the pallu slide down the left arm to the wrist, like an accordion that had opened out to the maximum possible width. At any given time, whenever I wore the sari, always in the Nivi style, I felt dressed up, like I was a complete person with all my appendages and limbs attached to my body in the appropriate manner. Moving my hands from beneath the fluid drape, my movements emerged as if from a preordained rhythm, like the tide that gesticulates at the moon. Day to night, the sari grew to be my uniform, not in the boring way of a staple or with the predictability of prescribed dressing, but as a familiar friend who I met every day. This friend was open to my individual quirks and experiments as I lengthened and shortened the sleeves of my blouses and added contrasting gota and brocade trims to them or embellished my saris with Parsi gara embroidered borders to give my personal touch. 

Often, I raided my mother’s exquisite and diverse collection of saris that I knew by smell and touch, having used her pallus as a kid to cover my face while in the company of strangers. Another interesting psychological impact of the daily practice of wearing the sari was that I reminded myself of my mother — except a younger, slimmer version — and this was not something that I had bargained for. How could I wear the sari, and still be myself? For one, I sported it sans the bindi, the traditional sindoor shringar (adornment) that she diligently applied. I also pleated the sari much tighter than she did, by tying the petticoat drawstring so tight that it left a deep reddish dent across my midriff. This measure, supplemented by one solitary safety pin that I used to hold the pleats, seemed fool-proof enough to prevent any unravelling. 

The use of the safety pin was a hot tip given to me by another lady who wore saris like a second skin — my regal mother-in-law. I remember standing in her dressing room, being readied for a luncheon. I remember how she draped the six yards of printed chiffon and neatly manipulated the pleats, advising me to suck my stomach in while tucking them in. And then, she deftly glided the safety pin, from the inside, clinching all of the pleats together and clicked the pin like a pro. It was a monumental moment in my journey of understanding the ways in which the sari could cocoon me. 

While my mother’s armoire is filled with traditional woven saris that come from every corner of India — Varanasi, Tamil Nadu, Odisha, Gujarat, Bengal — my mother-in-law introduced me to the sequin-dappled ones that she donned in the late ’70s or early ’80s, created by the boutiques of Tardeo AC Market. Through these, I first had an inkling about the fact that the sari is capable of constant reinvention. Perhaps the fancy cigarette case, which accompanied her when she attended cocktail parties in the more modern, embroidered French chiffons (popularised by the sophisticated Maharani Gayatri Devi who brought a European twist to the traditional garment) and sleeveless blouses, added to that impression. 

Off I went to the renowned embroiderer, S. U. Zariwala, near Colaba Post Office, the progenitor of today’s Naeem Khan (of Michelle Obama fame) and ordered my first sequinned sari sheet. It was in a fluorescent turquoise shade and was covered with shiny sequins from edge to edge, with a matching sequinned blouse, of course. For many years it remained a favourite go-to, when the dress code demanded a black tie. Soon I substituted it for an easier option, the one-minute sari, introduced by fashion maestro Tarun Tahiliani at the turn of the century. It was perfect for many like me, who had two kids and a career, and only 30 minutes in hand to doll up for a do. Sari gowns, pre-stitched saris and the like gradually began populating my wardrobe from other designers too — Amit Aggarwal, James Ferreira and Shweta Kapur. Almost 40 years later, the turquoise sequinned sari lies wrapped in mothballs and muslin in a sari cupboard, filled with the mustiness of a forgotten life. With my beloved mother-in-law and sari-draping guru having passed on, the S. U. Zariwala sheet felt just too heavy to manage single-handedly.

As my work life gathered pace taking Verve, a bi-monthly magazine, to a monthly edition in November 2006, and as invitations to brand launches and store openings fell on my desk fast and furious, the requirement for ready-to-wear sartorial options became a necessity. The luxury of searching for that show-stopping sari, that would then need a finishing-stitch, blouse and petticoat to be tailored overnight, became impossible. So, I allowed my saris to become relics of an age that hadn’t yet discovered cool, the paps or Insta fame. As the Founder-Editor of a publication, working nine to five, I found little time to breathe, let alone air out my saris. It was an annual ritual I had witnessed and participated in at both my maternal and married households, where two matriarchs religiously emptied out their sari closets at the end of each monsoon. Every sari, folded in pristine transparent muslin, was spread out on their terraces to soak in the Bombay sun — being readied for the imminent festive season. 

Each sari became an embodiment of their identity and possibly their femininity which was not only being preserved but also rejuvenated year after year. Today, this idea is probably replaced by social media movements like the #100SareePact, where women band together, expressing solidarity through their sari pick of the day. Other movements like The Sari Series by Border and Fall have captured often ignored facets of the sari — sometimes with diverse, innovative drapes.  

This intertwining of the sari and the body, both literally and metaphorically, could not fully be captured by an exhibition like The Offbeat Sari, held at the Design Museum in London in 2023, which showcased around 60 saris. The sari now sits on a global platform, with international designers like Alexander McQueen, Hermès and Jean Paul Gaultier adding their own sensibilities to it. The exhibition gave the viewer the gamut of possibilities that the new-age sari has thrown up, sparked by the avant-garde perspectives of the contemporary designer. At the exhibition, I viewed saris paired with metal bustiers, skimpy bralettes, blazers and T-shirts, some with the ubiquitous street-style footwear — sneakers. But I was suddenly hit by a sense of disembodiment, of being a body without a soul. Each piece, irrespective of the designer, conveyed a uniformity of intent — to shock, surprise and innovate. 

It was that very intent that overpowered the eternal appeal of the sari. For, when seen in its original form, the sari allows for enough room for wearers to infuse the nuance and essence of their own lives.

I will never forget the red-and-gold temple Kanjivaram, the narangi-orange Banarasi tissue organza and silver-and-gold Uppada Jamdani that I wore during my wedding week. Now, 47 years later, when I bring them out for special occasions, they embody within their folds and creases who I was then, and who I have become through the decades.

_______________

In the first part of the tri-series, Anuradha Mahindra, Founder-Editor, Verve, explores new paradigms of aesthetics, identity and empathy in the notoriously seductive Italian universe — from the vantage viewpoint of a 60-plus woman trying to keep pace with her evolving vision and more….

In the second part of the tri-series, Anuradha Mahindra, Founder-Editor, Verve,  speaks about how even the most powerful women in the world are boxed in by expectations and so, there is a lot more work to be done before their words can stick….