The Sari

The sari is just a six feet length of fabric, a traditional garb worn by most Indian women. Some are embroidered with gold and silver threads, some are hand made with jewels and crystals and some are of a single tone, plain and simple. Some are used by women who tend the fields, some are kept as heirlooms, passed from mothers to daughters, and some lie forgotten in the back of drawers. As varied as women’s fancies and as colourful as Indian mythologies, the sari is a six foot length of fabric, a traditional garb worn by most Indian women.

I got married when I was 15 years old and my husband was 22. It was not uncommon in those days for women in Malaysia to marry young. I was a young rebellious teenager who prided myself on speaking my mind. The bane of my very traditional parents I almost refused the engagement, but something in me told me he was good man and I relented.

The first present my husband bought me was a sari. A sari that was the colour of red-earth and yellow and it reminded me of sunflowers. I had a wonderful life with my husband and we had eight beautiful children – four girls and four boys. Then when I was 35, my husband died.

The status of a widow in the Indian community meant that one had to give up partaking in celebrations and festivities of any kind. We could only wear white and had to spend the rest of our lives in silent mourning. As the husband passed, the light of our life is seen to have been snubbed, hence so to must the life of the widow who survives her husband.

The memory of my husband. He was a liberal man who believed in the education and empowerment of women. Against the advise of most of our relatives, he insisted that all our children both boys and girls went to school. I knew that to wear white and live life in the sidelines would go against the memory of my husband but I also knew that to rebel against the traditionalist would not stand me and my young ones in good stead within the community. So I followed the custom for three years. Three years I kept myself away from friends and festivities and wore the traditional white sari with no jewellery or adornment of any kind.

After the passing of the third anniversary of my husband’s death, I got myself some work as a part time typist in the small lawyer’s office down the road. At the same time I took my youngest children out of the local school and sent them to a convent school. I did not want them to be subject to any bad mouthing from the traditionalists in our community. Slowly as time passed I used the opportunity to wear pastel and then brighter coloured saris. Oh, people talked for a while as they always must. They seemed to suggest that my refusal to abide by the custom meant my refusal to mourn the memory of my husband.

But you see… my sari is the colour of sun flowers. A sunflower always keeps its petals to the sun. It stays true to the rays and moves with the warmth across the sky. I cannot help but be true to my husband’s memory and live as I have been empowered by them.