SHOPPER'S WORLD; Enfolding India in A Length Of Cloth
By IRIS IHDE FREY; Iris Ihde Frey is a writer who lives in Westport, Conn.
Published: February 28, 1988
THE sari is merely a length of cloth about six yards long, but it enfolds all the exoticism of India. Without the need for tailoring, buttons or zippers, the sari provides its wearer with the modesty of a veil, a shield from the sun and protection from the cold. Like the sarong and the serape, the sari combines simplicity with ingenuity to become an elegant solution in the technical sense of the word. This universal uniform of both Moslem and Hindu women is also elegant in the word's high fashion sense. Whether woven of simple cotton or precious silk the sari is considered by many to be the world's most feminine costume.
Though its construction is simple, it carries complexity with it. Its weave, its fiber, its decoration, are like footprints that track the sari's region of origin. From Jaipur come tie-dyed saris; Kerala is known for its cream-colored ones with solid gold borders; Kanchipuram's are woven in shocking colors in unusual combinations, and Bangalore is known for the sheerness of its organza, chiffon and georgette saris. Murshidabad's silks are brocaded with untwisted silk threads and from Benares come traditional brocades with names like Moon and Stars or Nightingale's Eyes. Orissa is well known for the rare double ikat for which both warp and weft threads are painstakingly measured and dyed before weaving to produce geometric patterns with distinctive slurred edges.
Depending on the way it is draped the sari can provide clues to the wearer's occupation, marital status and sexual liberation. Field workers sometimes drape one end between the legs, forming a kind of pajama. Widows and married women use the free end to cover their heads and purdah-observing Hindus use it as a veil to cover the face.
After the 1829 outlawing of suttee, the immolation of the Hindu widow on her husband's funeral pyre, it was customary well into the 20th century for a widow to wear, along with a shaved head, a coarse white sari. As it has been for centuries, the sari is still an important part of a bride's dowry. Princess Gayatri Devi wrote in her autobiography that when she married the Maharajah of Jaipur, ''I had over 200 saris of various kinds - in plain and patterned chiffon, with and without borders, some hand-embroidered, others appliqued, some embroidered in gold, and others simple, heavy silks.''
Today's sari is part of a three-piece ensemble that comprises a long petticoat tied firmly at the waist with a drawstring, and a choli, a short fitted bodice that leaves exposed a cooling and fetching band of bare midriff. To wrap a sari, one end is held at the left side of the waist. With the long edge parallel to the floor, it is wrapped clockwise around the body to center front and tucked into the petticoat waist. Six or more pleats, laid one over the other, are made at the front and tucked in. The free end is circled loosely around the hips and then drawn over the left shoulder. It may be pleated at the shoulder or casually draped.
On a recent first visit to India, I arrived resolved that a sari would not be one of the souvenirs I would bring home. Too many acquaintances had returned with one that, after display, was doomed to be forever folded away in a drawer. Unlike the woolen poncho brought from Mexico or the embroidered jacket from Rumania, a sari would have no practical place in my wardrobe. And that essential grace of carriage and movement inherited through centuries of wear would be wanting. Late one afternoon while traveling by rail through the desert a young Indian woman in the distance paused to watch the train pass. For a moment she appeared to be a mannequin abandoned after a New York department store's India promotion. With one hand shielding her eyes, her sari ruffled from waves of air thrown off by the moving train. The low sun behind her turned the sari's already glowing orange to firelight. I could take home this unforgettable image of a sari. And then I happened on the Khadi store in New Delhi.
Khadi means homespun. One of Gandhi's major tenets was typified by the charka, the simple hand-driven spinning wheel symbolically displayed on the Indian flag. He wanted the people to make their own cloth and boycott British-made goods as part of the nonviolent struggle for independence. In the movie ''Gandhi'' Candace Bergen played the role of the photojournalist Margaret Bourke-White and in one scene Gandhi teaches her how to spin. In order to photograph Gandhi Bourke-White had to agree to do it while he was occupied with his daily hour of spinning. And in order for her to photograph him while he was spinning she had to first master the technique. While her camera would cover his outward appearance, his aides insisted, her story on spinning would interpret his soul.
The main Khadi Gramodyog Bhavan, known simply as the Khadi, is situated on bustling Connaught Circle in New Delhi. When I happened upon the store I was frazzled from the onslaught at every step of aggressive hawkers. In the store window was a huge portrait of Gandhi festooned with fresh flowers and announcements of discount sales celebrating his October birthday. Curiosity lured me inside, where I discovered both sanctuary and colorful bazaar. Treated with benign neglect, it was possible here to become just another browser.