Shaadi & The City: Sari So Sloppy

I'm not entirely positive how I've spent 24 years without mastering the art of wearing a sari. With a grandmother who ran a fabric-printing factory, a mother who could probably fold a wicked set of chiffon pleats blindfolded, and a father who's always asserted the fact that Indian women look the classiest when wearing one, I can only think of one reason why I've shirked the six yards of cloth: pure, unadulterated fear.

Thanks to my awkward set of motor skills--something that can be confirmed by my kindergarten report card--I had visions of getting lost inside the intricate folds of the thing, being pricked to death by the numerous safety pins I would foolishly use to fasten it, only to look like a frat boy in a toga three times his size. In short, I'm a lost cause.

On a recent family trip to Mumbai, my mother seemed to think otherwise. Unbenownst to me, I was signed up for a series of sari draping workshops (an effort to raise my newly-wed cred, perhaps?) and cheerily told that I would be starting ASAP. In the past, I'd managed to talk myself out of other "fun" classes I was almost hijacked into taking including but not limited to vegetable carving and napkin folding. I wish I was kidding, believe me I do. But this time, I was out of excuses. You'd be surprised to know what 98 degree weather does to your strategic reasoning. I also reluctantly realized this skill seemed far more relevant and applicable than, say, the ones needed to transform the head of a pineapple into a delicate swan. After all, on the few occasions that I had managed to pull off a sari, courtesy of friends who patiently put me in one, I quite liked the floaty and ultra-feminine feel of it. And as my pragmatic little sister pointed out, I didn't want to end up scrounging around for help every time I decided to wear one.

Which is how I found myself in the home of Mrs. Sushila Bhatia, a few days into my Indian holiday. Sushila Aunty, a petite sixty-something with a tight smile and pair of egg-shaped glasses that gave her a sort of owlish vibe, was optimistic. "Beta, we'll have you draping this thing in your sleep," she proclaimed, in a murky combination of English and Gujarati. And so began my set of five classes in the sweltering heat of her Breach Candy apartment. My classroom was an empty bedroom, bordered by foggy, full length mirrors, containing nothing but a tiny tape recorder that blared the Gayatri Mantra on repeat.

Mornings with Sushila Aunty began with her verbally outlining a series of instructions involved in draping various different sari styles after which she would peer at me expectantly. In return, I would offer a clumsier, choppier rendition of the steps. Most classes ended with the sari, defiantly tumbling down into a massive heap around my ankles and me finding inconspicuous ways to cover up my exposed gut.

The whole thing reminded me of a cross between the military and finishing school. Occasionally, with her hands planted on the hips of her pastel nightgown (ironically enough, I never saw Sushila Aunty in a sari), she would throw in a tip or two about the most optimal place to fasten a safety pin and how to bend down "gracefully." If my pallu happened to be especially neatly placed, I'd be treated to morsels of gossip from the Mumbai wedding scene--on the side, Sushila Aunty is also a bridal consultant.

Soon enough, she accepted the fact that I was not going to be one of her star studded pupils, experts in swathing themselves virtually anywhere--moving vehicles, rooms without electricity, minuscule airplane bathrooms, etc. I was merely a perseverant individual who was determined to keep the style statement from going extinct [For a slightly chauvinistic but well-written take on this, see here) My pleats will always be a little off center and my safety pin wobblier than the rest, but I'm relieved to announce that my fear of the sari is now a thing of the past.

Don't even think about napkin folding though.