#sareespeak #womenofsareespeak #113

#SS 43/2021 #linen

Conspiracy.
Definition.
To plot, scheme.
Conspiracy theories abound.
About covid, about vaccines, about climate change, about food, about preservatives, vitamins..

In my home, conspiracies are the flavour of the month, nay, the day.
Each room, each appliance, each occupant conspires to make life, my life,
a confusion.

My husband believes that just as he is about to use the washroom, I need to use it too. There are other bathrooms, but no, we stubbornly insist on using only our master bedroom ensuite.
I believe the universe is conspiring to ensure our compatibility, as I point out to him, without fail. We are like minded in our washroom timings. When they matched our horoscopes, this compatibility would have been 100%.

Another conspiracy is..
The family’s natural psychic ability to crave the very opposite of the meal I’ve churned out. So if it’s Indian, they crave Italian, if it’s Italian, they politely ask if it is Chinese..

And a gremlin lives in the fridge. For sure. A day before, a beautiful, yes, the most gorgeous Whittaker Almond Gold, sits on the second shelf of the fridge door.
It’s still there, the next day.
And so you gingerly lift it off the shelf, only to find beautifully wrapped nothing.
You then shout for the girls. They dont hear you, obviously, as they are in winter/eternal hibernation in their rooms. You are too weak with hunger and anger to go to their rooms so you group facetime them. They vehemently deny their involvement, laying the blame on each other, then on the unsuspecting father, and finally they blame it on the fridge and proceed to enlighten me on the Fridge Conspiracy Theory.

And we must not forget The Shrewdest Duo of Conspirers of all homes.
The Washing Machine and Drier.
They sit unassuming, unobtrusive in the laundry room.
Don’t be misled.
They conspire to make you lose your marbles, sorry, I meant, socks.
Put a pair in, only one will come out washed or dried. Daughter #1 has resorted to occasionally wearing fashionably mismatched socks.

Just had so much to pen, but realise
The Greatest Conspirator is my Mind.
When I have ideas flowing, the frontal lobe conspires with the parietal lobe to ‘play (brain) dead’. And they proceed to make my head nod off to sleep, at which point, my finger on the onscreen keyboard, slips towards the delete key, erasing half my post.
Therefore, at this point, brain dead but not yet nodding me, will stop.
And quickly describe my saree.
And post this.
In the most gorgeous double toned purplish, maroonish linen with gold huge buttas on body, gold lined pallu. An easy comfy drape, wore it to a young couple’s house warming. With a cotton reddish maroon blouse.
Photos by husband, one a timed selfie.

One final conspiracy – the universe is conspiring to bring forth more linens for me. Wore a peach and green linen in a previous post, so
Watch this space, dear Sakhis.

#sareespeak #womenofsareespeak #112

#SS 42/2021 #kanjivaram #kanjivaramsilk #silk

Some random thoughts from my fried, refried, dried brain.
During moments when I miss mum, sisters, childhood friends.
After a long challenging day of work.
I liken visiting mum, mum in law, loved ones, ones I’m attached to, in different countries, then returning home,
To being reincarnated.
So this is how it works.
For me at least.
I spend some weeks at mum’s place.
Then the day arrives for me to leave.
We fluctuate between crying and fighting back tears.
I get on the plane.
I look out of the window, my heart aching so much I fear it will explode.
I wonder how I will cope, how those left behind will cope.
I fasten my seatbelts, browse through the in-flight movie list.
Sip some juice..
And then prep myself.
For my homecoming.
As in the home I’m returning to.
And slowly, that takes over.
And when I land, the immediate pressing issues of
Airing my home, unpacking, getting bread, milk, starting the cars, laundry, sheets, getting work-ready,
Take over.
The ache is still there but a hint of excitement is felt too, a sense of security, home again, own bed, bathroom.
I call mum, she sounds quite sad, I console, reassure her,
Because I am in a ‘new’ place,
Whilst she has been left behind.
It’s like a passing on.
A soul leaves, those left behind try to come to terms with the loss.
The soul is in limbo, in transit, before reaching its destination. The plane journey.
It may feel a little unsettled, but as it journeys on, the process of acceptance starts.
And it settles into its new routine or rather old, many times rehearsed routine.
And slowly, the memories fade as it gets immersed in its new state of being.

In a cream and gold large-checkered kanjivaram silk saree, with a soft peach and gold border. For a temple visit. Purchased this 8+ years ago in Chennai when my daughter and I attended intensive Veena classes with my Guru. Comments have us performing together, me in same saree.

#sareespeak #womenofsareespeak #111

@SS 41/2021 #cotton #ayirambutta #handloom #chettinad

I have no idea what to write.
About my day?
Full on. Fried brains. Cross country driving. South to North.  East to West.
2 to 3 devices per client. Internet issues.
A 48 hour day packed into 24 hours?
I know I know.  First world problems.
True that.
So, let’s talk about my classes then.
8 little ones over 2 days.
Had chided. No that’s putting it mildly.
Reprimanded? That’s too PC.
Scolded. Yes, apt.
Scolded at previous class.
For disrespecting art, instrument, teacher, parents and themselves.
For not loving what they do, for not giving time to a commitment they’d made.
For underestimating their intelligence and capabilities.
And so this week, they returned.
And were they absolutely good..
They played the varnams they had learnt cleanly, clearly,  with the correct nuances, the thalam strings strummed go the correct rhythmic cycle.
And my heart puffed up with love and pride.
And my fatigue flew out the window. Literally. Spread its wings and flew..
And I understood, 
Once again, I was reminded
yet once more,
why I do what I do,
why we all do what we do.
I have hope.

Photos show 2 demure and 1 crazy me,
In an Ayiram butta saree – A saree that has buttas within each of the squares, amounting to approximately 1000 in the entire saree. My saree features my favourite woven Annapakshis/Swans and Rudraksham/circular pattern. A Chettinad pure handloom cotton. Purchased on a trip to India some years ago for intensive music lessons with my Guru for a few months stay.  Handcrafted, handwoven saree from weavers of Karaikudi. Perfect for the Chennai summer heat as the drape of the saree is so comfortable and lightweight that I would wear it without any discomfort the whole day. Incredibly easy to maintain by hand or home machine washing.
A favourite khaki body and borders, buttas in gold and orange, with stripes of Annapakshis and Rudrakshams in gold and orange running through the gorgeous olive green pallu.
And finally..
Though a little too fitting,
With its Matching green blouse with black and gold borders.

#sareespeak #womenofsareespeak #108

#SS 38/2021 #linen #kantha

Wrote this last night at 11.30pm and woke up at 2.30am to find my phone under the quilt. The usual dozing off fiasco. Thank goodness I hadn’t erased it. Was going to post this on my FB page with the usual photos from 30 years ago then the narcissistic side of me took over. Will make it an SS post.

Yesterday 11.30pm.
Half an hour to go in this part of the world.
Just mentioned it to him.
And he goes, no, we have to consider Sri Lankan time.
6.5 hours +0.5 hours more..
Blessed birthday to my good half.
A good man, most of the time, except when he’s not.
A great friend, listener, irritator with his dry wit, mentor to many.
Single minded, passionate in imparting knowledge, be it finance/accounting, music, art.
An awesome Masterchef, Money Heist, Amazing Race companion-watcher,
A provider of a reassuring shoulder to cry on,
A giver of good honest advice,  the honesty of which I sometimes decide to go deaf,
Empathetic, an empowerer of a 3 to a miniscule 1, female majority household.
And the bit I love, and love to hate, is his selfless, mentoring..call it an ability, attitude, character but the bottom line is being able to advise, mentor, bring out the best in his students, friends..

Here’s to many many more happy birthdays to my man,
Have to go now to sort out his actual age.
He is claiming being a year older, which irks me,  meaning I too have to be a year older..
Can sense an argument brewing..

Continuing this morning with aromatic, delicious coffee in my left hand, curled up on sofa, heater on, typing with single finger on my right hand.
He’s had a pretty tough year with his health.
So had whisked him away to a rustic resort for a day. Overlooking the wintry sky and surfer’s waves. Beach walks, vegetarian dinner,  breakfast, heavenly views.
The overjoyed, enamoured, or I’d like to think so, gentleman clicked some shots of me on balcony, at beach..

Checked out, visited a serene temple, rested in the afternoon, a delicious vegan  Turkish/Greek/Mediterranean dinner with family. Finished off with an eggless decadent strawberry chocolate cake.
Got home, had that age-disagreement with husband, slept off typing a post, awoke to see a text at 3.30am about..
Dear Chinna Dua’s sad demise.

And now..Reading SS posts.
Feeling quite heavy hearted.
The only way to lighten this load is by
Celebrating Chinna Dua, other saree stalwarts and countless others whom I’ve loved and admired,
By sporting bindis, potlis, sarees,
By celebrating life, like they had..

In this post, I celebrate
A Birth-day and
A passing-on-day.
Two sides of the same coin.
One inevitably follows the other. And the other follows the one.
The cycle continues.
And we, who live, must celebrate living..

Sharing husband’s clicks,
In my newly purchased-gift-to-myself-but-fibbed-it-was-a-gift  peach and lime green linen kantha saree.
With Chinna Dua, also in a peach linen saree.

#sareespeak #womenofsareespeak #107

#SS 37/2021 #cotton #kantha

Let’s talk about photography.
I have this simple concept.
If I like what I see, then everyone else will.
I suppose that’s what we should aim for. Some amount of self love, self confidence.
Easy for you to say mum, the girls retort.
Yes, that’s because I have a condition known as opposite-of-anorexia. Akin to narcissism.
My condition is somewhat like this.
I slap on my powder, pottu, lipstick, slap down my daughter-insists-I-am-balding hair, grab the nearest matching cardigan and scarf/shawl, look for my work and personal phone, handbag, laptop satchel, pray, dash out the door.
Quite pleased with myself, as I’d said goodbye to a somewhat colourful, pleasant looking woman that morning in the mirror.
At the lights, I pull down the car mirror.
White streaks across cheeks, necks. Grab end of scarf, rub frantically.
A semblance of normalcy.
Truly believe am work-ready.
Similarly, some Fridays I go out with the girls, a movie, dinner or some shopping. Let me rephrase that. They shop, I hold bags, get called into changing rooms amid cries of ‘I’m never going to have that pasta again’. Then, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I gasp with horror. Grey parting, messy hair, food bump, not the picture I have in my mind. There are times I’ve looked at clothes on the mannequin, and tried them out in the changerooms. No, you don’t want to know what transpired.
So coming back to photography, I see some amazing clicks on Saree Speak. The sakhi’s face, saree, stands out clearly against the somewhat hazy background, saree colours are vivid, almost like a 3D snap.
So I ask my girls. Please capture my closeup. Make me look good.
And they click, and snap (literally) and click. And they send the photos to my cracked-screen-hand-me-down android from their state of the art iPhones, each one claiming the other has a better camera or that they are running out of storage.
And I get a purplish photo, or a shot with my massive shocked face, squinting, or me caught in mid saree adjustment.
I suggest a filter, some sunshine or haze behind me. They stare at me as if I have lost my marbles.
‘Don’t ever do that!’
‘Everyone will know!’ ‘
And they won’t ever trust you again!’
Well well well. Look who’s talking.
Quite honest young women, I must say.
Must’ve done something right after all.

Draped a kantha cotton silk lilac saree with green and gold borders and pallu. Body has embroidered diamond buttis of gold and green.

And now,
Opposite-of-anorexic, narcissistic me, will post the purplish photo and no-filter non 3D click.
And sigh,
will nail the perfect or perfectly imperfect shot some other time..

#sareespeak #womenofsareespeak #105

#SS 35/2021 #cotton #oxytocin

The Happy Hormone.

Disclaimer. A naughty post. Not really. Depends on what you consider naughty or nice.

Three decades ago, there lived a young couple in Malaysia, living quite ordinary existences, before the babies came along, work, home, walks, dates, chores except that they got invited to cultural events quite frequently, being musicians.
So, off they went to a music concert by eminent musicians from abroad. The lady all dolled up in a rich classic kanjivaram silk, the gentleman, looking quite suave in his silk Kurta veshti shawl.
They were led to the front of the auditorium, seated smack in the centre in the first row.
The kutcheri commenced with a brisk Varnam, followed by a krithi on Ganesha.
The krithis flowed, endless, divine, with alapanas, kalpanaswarams, niravals, thanams that drove the lady, and the rest of the audience, I suspect, to a state of euphoria.
Oxytocin overload.
She leaned towards him, whispered in his ear, her eyes on the stage.
The gentleman nodded, unflinching, hair no 65 in place, but a smile played about his lips, which threatened to break into a guffaw.
Fast forward to the Present.
The babies have grown to be young women, she plays the same stunt at concerts, kutcheris when oxytocin intoxicates her into a state of bliss.
And wouldn’t you like to know what she whispered? #theme for June?
Something naughty, musical, blissful.

In that near state of bliss in a Cotton. Magenta purple borders and pallu, autumnal colours of rust, orange, with a striped magenta matching blouse. Signalling the end of autumn.

Apologies for these endless photos with my veena. Sometimes that’s all I can salvage from the home paparazzi’s clicks.

#sareespeak #womenofsareespeak #104

#SS 34/2021 #cotton

Disclaimer. Not just a long post. But a longer than long post, alert.
Guaranteed Saturday dawns a little dull and not so early.
My Chores Day.
Vaccuming.
Dusting.
Wiping down glass tops, mirrors.
Bathrooms.
Toilets.
Showers.
Mopping.
I know, I know.
Sounds like my chore list stuck to my fridge with a magnet that says “A clean house is a sign of a wasted life”.
So let’s get down to the basics.
Vaccuming.
Bought an expensive Vaccum cleaner some years ago. The sales rep poured sand onto a rug, and proceeded to vaccum it with a top US Vaccum. Watched as it sucked in everything, or had it?
With a flourish akin to David Blaine, he picked up another Name and revacuumed the rug.
Mouth agape, I saw the clear baglesss bit fill with sand and dust.
I was hooked.
No questions asked.
Wrapped up deal with hand vaccum and other knick knacks.
I diligently washed filters, bagless bag, cleaned head.
It behaved for 2 plus years, then gave up the ghost.
Overheated, took it back to outlet, paid a bomb, continued.
Once again, it misbehaved.
Got a second big name VC.
Should have realised at the beginning.
The cord refused to hook securely to the vaccum box.
Amidst grumbles, complains, some screams, the daughters managed to get the home vaccummed to a sufficient standard.
And one morning, that too went on strike.
Then, I decided I wanted
The Robot.
My sisters, client, friends have
The Robot.
My sister claims her husband loves it more than he loves her. He admires it as it strolls through the room, then empties itself, and resumes its chores independently.
My mother insists it hates her, and chases her into the bathroom when it sees her.
My client says it maps the area, and she controls it from her phone.
My friend mentioned he gets a text at work “Master, I’m done”. Unable to validate this last one, never seen the message.
Anyway, over a round table conference, the family has decided that they will conduct research on this device before purchasing it.
That, or I threatened, we move house.
So in the interim, husband and I got a stick vaccum cleaner worth a low 2 digits, while the research intensifies.
Currently, performing well, missing the occasional thread but I shall not jinx it by saying anymore.
Draped a simple olive green cotton saree with gold, red, black borders and pallu.
Well mismatched with a maroon gingham cotton blouse with red and green embroidery on sleeve ends. Asked Daughter#2 to click some shots of content me, on Tuesday, practising, on a freshly vaccumed carpet. And she did, at an angle, whilst seated at the dining table.

SS 33/2021 #silk #kanjivaram #kanjivaramsilk

#sareespeak #womenofsareespeak #103

A lot going on. With all of us. And it’s ok to acknowledge. It’s ok to frown, it’s ok to scream outwardly, inwardly, cry in the shower, and then to breathe and be grateful that we got up that morning, and set about our day as usual. And acknowledge the little Gems that Life throws at us.

Attended one such Gem. A dance programme in another town, 2 hours away. Drove with husband. Stopped for coffee. The programme had been cancelled twice before due to lockdowns and had to be staged as the children were outgrowing their costumes. 😂
Heart warming, thrilled to watch dancers as young as 3/4, who hadn’t mastered many adavus, seated, displaying hand mudras and abhinaya. There were moms dancing with their children. Choreography was innovative and so in tune with children’s abilities.

My husband was asked to speak. And he touched on the the qualities of a classical dancer as explained in the Abhinayadarpana,
Javaha Sthiratwam Rekha cha
Bhramari Drishti Shramaha
Medha Shraddha Vacho Geetham
Paathra praanaa Dasha Smruthaha.

Javaha, the Agility of a dancer.
Sthirathwam, Steadiness. A dancer’s body balance as well as maintaining the center of concentrated force as the body moves through space.
Rekha, Clean graceful lines.The spatial arrangement of limbs and other upangas with the main anga without losing integrity of the overall aesthetics.
Brahmari, Perfecting circular movements. The perfect sense of balance and spatial composition. Attained only after Javaha, Sthiratwam and Rekha have been perfected.
Drishti, Eye movements. The soul’s mirror. Essential to be able to strike that connection to the Rasika(audience) and to drive focus, concentration to the movements, adding overall beauty and grace.
Shramaha, Hardwork and Perseverence.
Medha, Intelligence. The quest for knowledge will push any artiste to greater heights.
Shradha, single-minded devotion, focus. To be able to imbibe concepts fruitfully.
Vacho, Good articulation.
Geetham,Music Knowledge.

When the dancer has these 10 qualities, the dancer is able to connect with the audience on all levels, visual, emotional, spiritual.
The dancers exuded intense, beautiful Bhava and we, the Rasikas, experienced the Rasa, Anandam, Bliss.
Left for the 2 hour night drive home, quite quite happy.

On another note, remembering my dad, a lover of the arts, who passed away on May 8th 1980. A Visionary ahead of his times, sending us to dance, vocal, instrumental classes when not many did then.
Adding a post I’d written in 2019. Ignore please if you have read this before. Saree is also described.

Growing up, I loved the arts, the sciences. I wanted to do everything. I was blessed with a father who taught me talent is not born, it needs to be nurtured, coaxed, moulded into being, needs to be sustained.
And so with his love, encouragement, and gifts of books, books, more books, I read avidly, voraciously, hiding behind the curtain when mum thought I was having an afternoon nap. Dad hid gifts of books amongst clothes in cupboards, under pillows, mattresses, in kitchen drawers.
I painted, I wrote, poems, short stories and he was my critic. No not really, whatever I did, he loved. I danced, I sang, I studied, I roller skated, I dreamed.
I wanted to be an oncologist, in the 70s, I researched various cancers, i cut out articles, papers from the Readers Digest and other journals on melanomas, cancers, I devoured Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s The Cancer Ward, which made me sad and disturbed, but made life real.
Then, at some point, at a crossroads in my young life, I had to choose between the arts or the sciences. I loved music, dance, painting, poetry, literature. I loved pure and applied mathematics, physics, chemistry and biology.
I knew I would excel in both. But the world as we knew it then did not subscribe to the notion that being an ARTiste was a real profession.
And then, my greatest fan passed away at 40, ironically, with cancer, when I was 15. Mum 35, sisters 12, 6. We all had to grow up, very quickly.
Dreams were folded carefully and placed in the deepest recesses of locker boxes in the soul in an attempt to forget them.
I dabbled in Computer Science – Artificial Intelligence, Machine Learning, Software Engineering, Algorithms and Programming, Natural Language Processing. I found solace in this world where I was in control of objects, programmes, machines and computer code, where at a tweak of a line of code, I would experience a Eureka moment.
I have no idea why I write this. Probably because this group is non judgemental, appreciative, non intimidating.
And because my thoughts are random, I dedicate this post to my father, who drilled into me that one has to work hard to sow the rewards later, that one is essentially, intrinsically what one is inside, that the arts are extremely important for one’s soul, that to not waste energy complaining but to get up and do something about it, that one must dream and dream lavishly, and that one must leave a legacy behind, however insignificant.
A fatherly process of Osmosis over 15 years.
Am draped in a rich deep maroonish brown Kanjivaram Saree with gold stripes on the body, a pallu of mustardy gold with olive green and rust stripes and borders of gold, brown and bottle green stripes.
The colours of Autumn.
The colours of Life.
Rich, earthy, Real.
As real as life, the browns of the soil, the reds, golds of leaves.
Life, when tragedy strikes, should be viewed not as the autumn of dying withering leaves, but in the words of Albert Camus, “a second spring when every leaf is a flower”.
And if it helps, know that the loved ones are always with us.
“Sometimes I just look up, smile and say ‘I know that was you’” – Unknown quote.

#sareespeak #womenofsareespeak #SS 32/2021 #102 #silk

Earlier, had watched News. Covid, bombings. Didn’t feel like posting.
Then, told myself, life, as we, I, know it, must go on..

Thursday was one of those over the top full on days.
Also, a cold front. So crisp clear blue skies but oh so cold.
A colleague had come up from Tauranga to assess, train work clients with me.
The day started early, with no lunch or break, got home past my usual time, after weaving from one motorway to another, commanded by Google Maps “There is a 20 minute congestion on State Highway..”.
Had packed uppuma for husband ‘s lunch which he hadn’t touched as they’d had a work lunch. Gobbled it down. With some green chilli pickle. Gulped down a tiny cup of tea. And yes, I was naughty. Added sugar, needed that pick me up.
Showered, draped a saree for class. More about the special Saree later.
A wee bit disconcerted as Daughter#1 was using the amp, and had set up the music room for a concert recording. Set up for class in the hall. Prayed that the internet would behave as it is a creature of habit in my home, not liking me moving from one room to another.
Praise Be. (Forgive my current preoccupation with The HandMaid’s Tale). Class went well, I must add.
Made hot mocha for the young violinist who was having a headache. Left them to their music.
Rushed to a friend’s home to collect Daughter#1’s clothes for weekend functions. She was about to make dosa and mentioned her coconut for the chutney was not fresh.
Got home, had to whip up a quick dinner. Made sathams for the definitely late meal Tomato rice. Lemon rice. As an afterthought, packed some food, drove back to give it to my friend.
Got home, got Daughter#2 to click some random shots. She’d earlier clicked some of me in deep concentration? tension? during class.
Late late dinner with family/musicians, another shower, ready for midnight Zoom pyjama party to celebrate niece’s birthday. Midnight for us due to different time zones, Zoom due to global lockdowns.
In a mustardy golden silk, with maroon and gold borders and pallu. Saree draped on Devi, gifted by temple priest after a temple performance.

#sareespeak #womenofsareespeak

#SS 31/2021 #101

 #cotton #handloom #Bengal #madhyamani #madhyamoni

A get together with the Auckland Saree Speak moderators/admins.
A mini SS Meet of sorts, to plan our next meet.
Had a lovely, extremely therapeutic time with sakhis Kishori who had posted about this earlier, Sucheta, Manasi, Kirithika.
A cold rainy wintry night, but we braved the weather and draped cottons, silks, chiffons.
My friends were reluctant to post about our dinner, about the upcoming meet, for fear of being criticised for socialising in the midst of a pandemic.
Told them, it’s good to have some rays of positivity.
We may be in a relatively well-managed Covid situation at present, but who knows when it will rear its ugly head again in the community?
We may move around freely outside our homes, but what is free when our hearts are heavy from news of home,
from asking when, what if, why,
when we are afraid to hear the pings of chat groups,
to answer calls.
Health issues at home, overseas, heavy workloads.
And not wanting to hear the dreaded phone ring in the weird hours of the day.
So, in light of the fog enveloping us, some old fashioned food, friendship therapy was just the up and go we needed.
We met, ate, laughed, talked about ourselves, families, jobs, then got up to pay, and as Kishori had mentioned, remembered the original reason for the dinner.
Spoke to the manager, looked around the venue, discussed timings, menus.
And left feeling happy and a little less guilty.
Even if only somewhat temporary..
Draped a Bengal handloom, Madhyamoni saree,
My Happy Saree in
Blues, Yellows, Greens,
Even if Summer’s long gone,
And yes, just managed to adhere to SS Rule #5.