Cloth, safety pins and petticoats

Dear dedicated reader,

Saris are the traditional uniform of the Indian school teacher; today, I was a traditional Indian school teacher.

Five and a half meters of precariously wrapped cloth, five safety pins and one airtight blouse are all that kept me from nakedness in front of my 240 students today. I can only guess at the evolution of this particular piece of Indian culture. In a place as famous for its cotton export and textile production as India, how else to best show off your wares than in a dress that showcases five and a half meters of said fabric on a (hopefully) beautiful woman?

The four of us planned to wear saris during the fast, but each day presented an insurmountable sari-wearing challenge: we were going somewhere outside the school, it was too hot, petticoats weren’t finished yet, etc. Somehow, however, this Wednesday became the target day for wearing our saris. After an early morning jog around the courtyard, we looked at each other and asked ourselves, “Do we really want to do this?” I’d love to say the answer was a resounding ‘YES’, but in reality it was more of a shrug and a hesitant nod.

Melissa and I struggled through putting on the blouses which hug so tight that breathing seems like something of a luxury, helping each other inch the skin tight sleeves up our American arms. After bringing the catches together and sighing (as best I could) with relief, I crinkled my nose as I looked at myself in the full length mirror. I was not, in my petticoat and top, the beautiful Bollywood vision that I’d hoped I’d be. Slightly discouraged, Melissa and I went to go bother Lathaben in the kitchen to see if she would be kind enough to help us wrap our saris, as neither of us knew how.

Lathaben laughed at us in our half dressed state and wordlessly knew our unspoken hopes. Returning with us to the bedroom, she carefully turned off the fan and turned to the long swath of red cloth that made up Melissa’s sari. After some time, Sejalben popped her head in to our bedroom. “Oh, saris!” she said. We had previously warned her that we might attempt said acrobatics on this day and I guess she had come to see if we were serious.

The process of wrapping the sari was a serious business: I tried to watch as Sejalben and Lathaben swiftly made the dozen or so pleats that would make the skirt with their experienced fingers, but to my untrained eye, the sequence of movements were difficult to follow, much less to memorize. This was draped and that was pleated and this was tucked and that was pinned and, voila! We had been wrapped, as the terminology goes.

Looking at myself again the mirror, I was surprised at how I’d been transformed. Melissa, similarly changed, turned to Sejalben. “How old were you when you learned to do this?” She asked her.

“Oh, in my B.Ed (Teacher Training) they taught a lesson on this.”

“Are you serious?” I asked her. I think Melissa and I had both assumed that this was like a mandatory childhood skill. But I was even more intrigued that they had taught a lesson this as part of her teacher training.

“We had to wear the sari everyday to B.Ed, so they taught us,” she said, matter of factly.

“To classes?”

“Yes,” she explained. Wow.

Saris pinned and movements practiced by walking the length of the room and pretending to write on the wall as if it were a chalkboard, we were ready to go to the lion’s den, er, teacher’s lounge. The teachers’ lounge is located on the other side of the school, and by this time students were streaming through the main gate heading to their classes as it was almost 10:40, time for school to start. It was the fashion equivalent of running the gauntlet. I had a small taste of what was to come as I waited in the doorway on our porch for Melissa to be ready to go. One of the 9^th standards students had come by to see Vanisha.

“Miss, is Vanisha ma’am ther—oh miss, you are looking very fine today.” (This, by the way, in Indian English is an appropriate, unoffensive thing for a 13 year old to say to a teacher. Intonation is everything.)

I smiled an embarrassed smile and thanked him, wishing Melissa would hurry up.

As we walked out of the gate of our house and into the courtyard, I tried to walk as quickly as my body wrapped in cloth would allow me to go. I could see students hanging around outside their classrooms, staring at us as we walked and some beginning to comment loudly. I tried to put on my most confident face, as if I was used to wearing a distant relative of the bed sheet as a dress everyday.

Having successfully faced the challenge provided by the varied terrain of one gravel courtyard, one flight of stairs and one hallway without mishap, I almost felt confident as we walked into the staff room. I braced myself, and with reason: the reaction was immediate.

“Oh! Saris!” The universal cry could be heard. I felt myself blush and I tried to look normal.

The other teachers were aflutter with questions: “Who has wrapped this for you?” “Do you like it?” “Which do you like better: A sari or a dress?” I answered each in kind and took my seat on one of the wooden benches at the side of the room. The attention continued. “Oh, you are both looking so beautiful today,” the teachers exclaimed as they made the okay sign and clicked their tongues, a Gujarati sign of approval.

“So, tomorrow – you all will wear American clothes, right?” I joked. They laughed.

The bell rang and it was time to go to class. I grimaced as I made my way to 11A. I would have given anything to have any other class first. I gritted my teeth, pasted a smile on my face and walked into the class.

“Oooooooooooooooooooooh Saaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrri…” cooed the entirety of the class.

I tried to look intimidating. “Please get out your books.”

I was interrupted. “Ma’am,” one of the girls called out, “you are looking so fine today!”

Looking good, feeling fine.

Best,
Cat