The Saree Shop :Part 3 Pg 22 20/06 - Page 8

"...kaha Kosa silk-vilk milega abhi, shaadi ke season mein toh Dilli waale sirf aise georgette pasand karte hai..." Razia Ahmed talked away, his fingers grazing the shimmering gemstones lining the glitzy batch of sarees, which though fake, still rendered fuchsia hues to his unkempt nails. Arnav sitting disinterested on the mattress in front of Razia and his fourth glass of chai, suddenly sat up straight on hearing him utter the words 'Kosa silk' together. Prompting him with the very same words, he tried to prod him to speak more. "Abhi toh bola Arnav bhaijaan, who Khusi bitiya hai na, wohi jo aayi thi kal..." And so the tobacco-stained teeth launched into what seemed like a well-seasoned recollection of his early days back in Old Delhi.

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One humid Monday afternoon of July, a modestly dressed man in his early forties walked along the kitschy streets of Chandni Chowk. The vendors behind the carts laden with allegedly 'imported' fruits sparkling with the generous amount of cold water sprinkled over them and raised their pitch, their shouts calling out to this man walking briskly unmindful of the hollers. Stopping for a mere second, just before a crumbling old shop, only to skim his eyes over the rusty banner, he entered the shop, his face confused. This one amongst the throngs of the conjoint shops had screamed of a riot of colours, blazing yellow and mellow purples, but glittering, every sliver of the gaudy embroidery reflecting the raging midday sun.

A seemingly younger Razia stood at one corner of the shop, a metal frame holding cheap glasses filled with chai, his ears glued to the older man sitting on the mattresses, their monologues rehearsed to tempt the customers. "You have Kosa sarees?" The crisp English words must have startled the vendor in front of him, as the beefy hands left the comfortable cushion of his paunch to fiddle around with stacks of shimmering silks. The man standing behind him caught sight of something maroon peeking out from on lone shelf. This darker shade of auburn has little paisley shaped motifs raining down all over the pallu, whilst the body remained to be a blank sea of blood.

The saree was brought immediately after the man ordered for the saree to be picoted and delivered to a certain address in the nearby Nai Sarak Marg. As the man with a seemingly satisfied face walked out of the shop, a Nokia 6610 in hand, the lanky boy standing in the corner with brimming tea glasses caught the faint stream of the conversation. "Khushi, its maroon and has some black mango shaped motifs on the aanchal. Haan beta, I'm on my way back home...will be there in an hour or so."

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"He never returned Arnav bhaijaan. His daughter waited...waited for two complete days without consuming a morsel of food," Arnav sensed the slight melodrama in Razia Ahmed's voice, but the sudden heaviness it held, the wet gleam in his eyes didn't go unnoticed by him either. "...at least that's what I heard people saying," he continued, clearing his throat. "It was her birthday that day, they said. But the old professor, bhaijaan, he never returned. They found his body a week later... " He paused to gulp down mouthfuls of chilled water. "...that is when we found out that he was teaching at the old town's Kendriya Vidyalaya. Woh kya kehte hai na, post martem, woh-" "Post mortem?" Ganguly Saab kindly offered. "Haan haan wahi. They found out it had been a car accident. An old Zen had knocked the professor down into a ditch." A collective intake of breath could be heard in the shop, post which a silence so pregnant followed that Razia was compelled to return to his narration. "...the saree however, lay packed neatly in a brown paper bag days after. It was sold eventually, in fact a week after the professor's demise, I think. Ever since that day, I presume Khushi bitiya has been looking for that saree." The old men launched into a horde of trifling questions, whilst which Arnav got up and went outside the shop. Grabbing a ice cold bottle of Cola from the unsuspecting Mani, he walked away to a quiet spot of the market, where people didn't wander much. This short journey was punctuated with him furiously blinking his eyes to shrug off the pool of tears amassed within. This lone man standing in that one corner of the market couldn't concede this emotion completely. He was not familiar with grief, or rather any emotion bearing that much intensity at all. He had never known his parents; having grown up in a house that's only other resident was Amresh Kaka, another saree weaver by profession, in the scenic Assam. Amresh kaka had once met with a minor cardiac arrest, which had gripped Arnav's mind and heart with fear and disorienting helplessness. That was at the age of ten, and even then, when his kaka recuperated, he himself recovered from that benumbing vulnerability. After witnessing him healthy and on his feet working his heart off for an extent ten years had he left Assam to venture into Gangtok. Ever since then, he had never felt so deeply for something animate or inanimate.

Another thought crept into his mind, after taking a few refreshing sips of the swirling Cola, since Khushi was done searching for the saree in this town's biggest market, she would probably never venture back there. He thought he might have felt something convulse in his chest, painfully so. Heartache was it, he wondered.

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The nine yards maroon silk lay in front of him, and a roll of black rayon thread somewhere nearby. Arnav looked contemplating at these items he had impulsively brought from the shop, asking for an advance payment of his salary from the cashier. Suddenly, as he felt a few drops of the cool drizzle on his head, filtering through the evening sky overlooking the fields of zinnias, he understood he was still connected to her. Making this saree for her, the little long months it would take, he would be doing something for her, for the return of those guileless smiles. There was still hope, floating away someplace nearby, and he knew that maybe, he was not too far off from it.

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UNRES

When i read the title i had various assumptions of what it could be about.

I was wondering about Khushi's obsession over that particular saree.

But i never thought it would because of her tragic past.

Her need to get "the kosa silk maroon" saree stems from the yearning to have that saree which her Father chose for her which would be a cherished memento of him.

Arnav's decision to give her what she craves for is the most beautiful gesture.

Again you've made me spellbound.

Take a bow madame!

(Love you Shona! Will unres immediately after dinner :) )

~Edit~

Khushi's desperate search for that particular saree makes sense now ...

The Maroon Kosa Silk with Ambi's woven or embroidered on the pallu ...

a saree chosen for her by her father ... but it never reached her ...

Arnav's love for Khushi is so great that he has decided to weave a similar saree for her ...

just hope he is able to get it across to her ...

That was such a touching ... emotional chapter ... thanks ...