Integral
as rites and rituals are to a wedding, equally necessary is the
trousseau shopping. In
a South Indian wedding, the
terminology gets extended to the immediate relatives of the family of
the bride-to-be, with nit-picking over selection
of potential purchases – of
Kancheepuram silk
saris, to be specific – spilling over to the said family members as
well.
To
the uninitiated, Kancheepuram silk
saris hold a unique pride of place for South Indians, many
of whom who deem the ostentatiousness of the wedding based on the
saris worn by members of the bridal party on both sides. In
my experience as an attendee of quite a few such weddings, including
a couple in which I have had to wear a silk sari myself, I
can attest to the fact that the discussion of the apparel lasts a
lot longer when reminiscing
about the marriage than the
wedding proceedings itself.
It
shouldn’t come as a surprise then that ‘sari shopping’, as I
have come to call it, is often a comparative endeavour.
Of course,
not with the intention of one-upping
– at least, not in the
weddings that I have attended – but
based on inputs freely given and collected from close family and
friends, who have had organised weddings in
the immediately preceding
time-frame.
From
deciding on the
best location to purchase the
saris from to settling on the
optimal price to be set as the budget, the
whole process of zeroing down on the actualities itself takes
over a few weeks.
Exciting
as it sounds, the reality of
shopping, however, is tedious
and farthest from the
expectations of utopia.
For
those living in the metro cities away from South India, while there
are several big-brand
retailers to choose from when
it comes to buying the requisite silk clothing drapes, discontentment
with the available choices makes them head south – down to
Kancheepuram itself – to avail of the so-called better product
options.
And,
though almost always there is
assistance forthcoming from a local – recommended by one of the
aforementioned family or friends – suggestions also
pouring
forth from the garrulous
neighbour
sitting next in the local transportation vehicle
involve checking such suggested outlets as well.
The latter translates to digression from the initial plans made, and
re-accounting of the time needed to complete the rest of the travel
itinerary.
Traversing
through more outlets also means spending more time cooped
cross-legged inside the stores, first pointing at the array of
brightly textured – some, even ridiculously shocking to the
otherwise sober urban tastes – material and then discarding the
preference because of clashes with colour combinations, between the
sari and its border.
I
know, it sounds a little bit pretentious – and a reason for the
previously mentioned mental inertia –
but trust me, going for a purple sari and pink border combination is
just not done. The shopkeeper will say it’s one of the most trending
colour combinations, but as someone who has to wear the six-yard
creation with a tanned complexion, it just won’t work. As
won’t work the varying shades of green that keeping popping up at
regular intervals.
Not
that I have any problem with the colour green, but I have long held
reservations about owning a sari in that particular colour. It just
doesn’t feel right, but if only the shopkeeper would understand
that and stop amassing that colour in front of me.
Finally,
when you think that you have found the most gorgeous choice on offer,
without any quibbling on the colour, design and border, there’s the
biggest hurdle of them all
waiting to catch you unawares.
The price tag, a handy
snippet of information, conveniently hidden between the elaborate
folds of the sari suddenly makes an appearance and once noticed, it’s
not something you can forget
– not even by waving the wand and muttering obliviate –
that easily. You think, your
preference might make one of those rare exceptions to the
pre-assigned budget and that
familial love for you would be enough to surmount the price – after
all, how frivolous slight over-spending can be when compared to love? – but, like I mentioned
earlier, reality works in far different ways.
When
the shopkeeper refuses to entertain and budge from his ‘no
bargains’ motto despite
repeated persuasions from the rest of the family members making up
the trip, you are subtly advised – in Marathi, no less – to
either pick something else, how about revisiting that purple-and-pink
theme?, or wait for your turn when we resume the sari hunting in the
next shop. While, a courageous person would still opt for the first
option afraid of the
extension to the shopping trip,
me being me, I always take the other road. And, so onwards it goes,
with me dragging my feet and leaving my heart behind with that
glorious sari that I don’t think I will ever reconnect with again.
Mercifully,
the withdrawal pangs don’t go for on long as I get to pick a better
choice – there I said it – in the very next shop without having
to worry about price negotiations or budgetary concerns. And, it’s
pink too, with a monochromatic glimmer that I might have not opted
anywhere else, but one that I have fallen hopelessly in love with and
want to keep wearing, over and over again.
