First a sheepish confession: I am an inveterate sareeholic. It’s like a junoon. When I see a sari I like, I want it. And all my economics lessons to distinguish between need and want are promptly consigned to my mental dustbin. It consumes me and there is no resting till I have purchased it. I have thought of therapy and even consulted one, but to no avail. It’s been 18 years now and I have given up. I seriously wish the saree sisterhood would establish a ‘sareeholic anonymous’ for women like me. 

My obsession, which I euphemistically call passion, qualifies me eminently to hand out my two bits to fellow ‘sareetarians’ here. So here I am peddling some wisdom learnt the hard way.

A second confession: I am what some people have rightly pointed out a “handloom snob” as regards my saris.  

It’s an inherited genetic fault. I blame it on my parents. My mother wore her tangails that she bought from the “kaapoorwalla dadas’ who travelled to Patna every few months with their pristine white ‘gatharis’ wearing even whiter dhotis and kurtas. They would come on working days, as they knew on Sundays, the man of the house would be home, and the lady of the house would be tarry to take out her savings from the cheeni ka dabba and the mandir drawer, secret nooks and crannies where she hid a few rupees out of sight, scrimping and saving for the time dada would come with his colorful pitara. 

But this is not a story unique to my mother. All her lady friends, the neighborhood mausis, chachis, and a few of the anglicised ones we called aunty in awe, had a similar modus operandi. The drawing room (yes middle classes had these with prized sofa sets) would turn into a picnic. Dada would always come post lunch around 2 pm, well aware that the ladies would not grudge spending their siesta amid his saris; and would stay till evening, wrapping up only when it was time for the menfolk to return home.

For the middle class housewives then, their daily wear cottons, mostly Bengal ones, as West Bengal being next door were easily accessible and affordable, a couple of Banarsis for those annual weddings and printed silks from Khadi or Co-Optex for winter outings, were their dharohar (prized possessions).

My dad, by the time I was old enough to form my memories, had graduated from wearing Khadhi dhoti-kurta (white cotton in summer and Tussar in winter) to Khadi Tussar trousers and shirts. His choice of handloom attire was not inspired by Gandhian values (he was somewhat contemptuous of Gandhi, but more about this in another post), but rather because that was how Indian middle class men dressed at the time). He was also an auditor of Khadi Gramodyog, traveling all over the country to weaving centres and regional offices, and I guess that could have influenced his choices. But later, when Khadi became unaffordable for the middle class corporate officer with no ‘ghoos ki kamai’, to maintain and also to buy, he switched to Raymond’s trousers in summers and woolens ones from khadi or Raymond’s all tailored by his favorite tailor masters, in winter. The shirt remained Khadi Tussar throughout the year. 

My mom though clung to her handloom cottons and silks…

Next post: Anatomy of the handloom snob. When did handloom get snob value? Was handloom always the preserve of the elite? Did it symbolize inverted snobbery of the middle classes? Why and when did synthetics became infra dig? 

What do you think?

Do you have similar memories to share?