Auntie is one of the smallest women I know. At about 4’10” and weighing maybe 85 pounds, she makes anyone standing next to her look like a giant. This itty-bitty woman, with upper-arms the size of those blue Pillsbury crescent-roll cans, however, dons 6 meters of fabric everyday in the form of her sari. Two days ago, I had my first (and probably only) experience wearing a sari, which further highlighted that in my opinion, Auntie is a superhero in disguise. How else could she wear a piece of clothing that is more than three times her length, with such poise every single day. Not once has Auntie looked like her sari is swallowing her. Instead, Auntie wears some of the nicest saris I have seen with such nonchalance, that if I didn’t know better, I would think that the sari was invented just so Auntie could wear it. I’ve asked Auntie countless questions, trying to trip her up and get her to admit that wearing a sari is a hassle. I have yet to succeed. “Don’t you get hot in a sari in the summer?” I’d ask, but no, every time Auntie would have a rebuttal: “well in the summer, I wear cotton rather than silk saris, which breathe better.” “What about during monsoon season?” I tried, assuming that meters of fabric and pouring rain are a recipe for disaster. Auntie, once again, shot me down: “I carry an umbrella.” I racked my brain, hoping to think of an exceptional circumstance that would force Auntie to admit, that on occasion, saris can be inconvenient, but so far I have failed. I personally found wearing a sari such an ordeal that I was hoping to hear that it wasn’t just my American delicacy that made me feel awkward in my sari, but I found no such reassurance. Maybe my one bit of consolation is that Auntie would be just as uncomfortable in a pair of jeans, but wait, I forgot she’s a superhero, so she'd probably rock jeans too.
Two nights ago, my study abroad program held its farewell dinner because believe it or not, I’m only in India for another 3 weeks as of today. While the dinner itself was a bit of a let down—we spent more time sitting in a conference room listening to a lecture about the hard time we were going to have readjusting back to life in the United States, reverse culture shock if you will—it was an excuse for a bunch of American girls to play dress up and look absolutely ridiculous in saris. While most of the girls on my trip have bought saris of their own, I decided that no matter how beautiful my potential sari might be, I would probably never wear it again, and I’m even not sure if I could fit 6 meters of fabric into my suitcase to take home anyway. Instead, I was planning to attend the dinner sari-less, maybe even wearing a Western-style dress, but no, a sari was in the cards for me. When Auntie found out that I wasn’t planning to wear a sari, she insisted that I borrow one from her. (By the way, I would guess that Auntie owns dozens if not 100 different saris.) My roommate luckily had an extra blouse because there was no way that I was going to fit into one of Auntie’s; I’m actually not sure if at any point in my life, I would have fit into one of Auntie’s blouses. For those of you less versed in what actually goes into a sari, it basically consists of a blouse—a skin-tight, short sleeve top that covers your chest and very little else—a petticoat—a floor-length plain skirt to tuck your sari into—and the sari itself—the 6 meters of gorgeous fabric that is expertly wrapped and tucked around yourself so that you don’t need any pins to keep it on your body.
While I was just wearing the blouse and petticoat I felt like Jasmine. (While I realize this reference is inappropriate because Aladdin was set somewhere in Arabia, the Sultan’s palace looks suspiciously like the Taj Mahal, which I think justifies my connection to Jasmine.) I then had to get Auntie’s expert hands to help wrap the sari, which included tucking, pleating, draping and a whole host of actions I couldn’t even begin to imitate. When Auntie was done, there I was standing in a dazzling teal and silver sari, looking especially white (even though I’ve been in India for 3 months, I haven’t picked up much of a tan). I promptly proved my sari ineptitude by tripping over myself on my way out of Auntie’s room. Crossing the street an hour later, which is already a bit of an adventure given India’s lack of traffic laws, was even more of an ordeal than usual. My stride, while is already not very long, was cut in half by my sari, forcing me to stand on the median in the middle of the road, looking like an idiot, for much longer than I would have liked.
I felt like a little girl playing dress up for the evening. Just like when I used to put on my mom’s pumps and her jewelry, wearing a sari made me feel both beautiful and awkward, because I knew that’s what grown-ups wore, but it didn’t quite seem fit me. (Saris, other than the blouse, which are tailored specifically for you, are actually one size fits all.) I felt funny walking in the sari because my legs had to move through the layers and layers of fabric. I was constantly rearranging the part of the sari (which has a specific name that I currently can’t remember) that crosses diagonally across your chest and over your shoulder. It felt odd to me to have a breeze across my midriff, especially since I’ve been dressing more conservatively here than I would back at home. I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate for people to be able to see my waist or not and so I continually moved the material around to cover more or less of myself up. Auntie told me that I made the sari beautiful because I was wearing it, but I’m pretty sure it was the other way around. At the end of the night, it felt quite liberating to step out of the meters and meters (note: not yards and yards because this is India after all) of fabric and put on a simple t-shirt. I was Cinderella after the carriage turned back into a pumpkin, expect I was fine for my figurative night at the ball to remain a bit of magic. Maybe Auntie is not only a superhero, but a fairy godmother as well.
Two nights ago, my study abroad program held its farewell dinner because believe it or not, I’m only in India for another 3 weeks as of today. While the dinner itself was a bit of a let down—we spent more time sitting in a conference room listening to a lecture about the hard time we were going to have readjusting back to life in the United States, reverse culture shock if you will—it was an excuse for a bunch of American girls to play dress up and look absolutely ridiculous in saris. While most of the girls on my trip have bought saris of their own, I decided that no matter how beautiful my potential sari might be, I would probably never wear it again, and I’m even not sure if I could fit 6 meters of fabric into my suitcase to take home anyway. Instead, I was planning to attend the dinner sari-less, maybe even wearing a Western-style dress, but no, a sari was in the cards for me. When Auntie found out that I wasn’t planning to wear a sari, she insisted that I borrow one from her. (By the way, I would guess that Auntie owns dozens if not 100 different saris.) My roommate luckily had an extra blouse because there was no way that I was going to fit into one of Auntie’s; I’m actually not sure if at any point in my life, I would have fit into one of Auntie’s blouses. For those of you less versed in what actually goes into a sari, it basically consists of a blouse—a skin-tight, short sleeve top that covers your chest and very little else—a petticoat—a floor-length plain skirt to tuck your sari into—and the sari itself—the 6 meters of gorgeous fabric that is expertly wrapped and tucked around yourself so that you don’t need any pins to keep it on your body.
While I was just wearing the blouse and petticoat I felt like Jasmine. (While I realize this reference is inappropriate because Aladdin was set somewhere in Arabia, the Sultan’s palace looks suspiciously like the Taj Mahal, which I think justifies my connection to Jasmine.) I then had to get Auntie’s expert hands to help wrap the sari, which included tucking, pleating, draping and a whole host of actions I couldn’t even begin to imitate. When Auntie was done, there I was standing in a dazzling teal and silver sari, looking especially white (even though I’ve been in India for 3 months, I haven’t picked up much of a tan). I promptly proved my sari ineptitude by tripping over myself on my way out of Auntie’s room. Crossing the street an hour later, which is already a bit of an adventure given India’s lack of traffic laws, was even more of an ordeal than usual. My stride, while is already not very long, was cut in half by my sari, forcing me to stand on the median in the middle of the road, looking like an idiot, for much longer than I would have liked.
