The Pink Saree

“The magic moments go unrecognized, and then suddenly, the hand of destiny changes everything” ― Paulo Coelho

The picture in the newspaper illustrated the incident, it showed people, men, women and children bent in an engrossed state as they collected coins, money and other  things after a funeral was performed on the beach. They did not notice anyone clicking their photograph to be published in a newspaper. The photograph showed these people rejoicing the death of the person as they showered their blessings on the large-hearted relatives. I kept looking at the picture for a long time recollecting my past.

Andhra Pradesh is known for cotton and silk clothes. The festival season begins with Ganesh Chaturthi though people do celebrate Pongal, Ugadi and many other festivals in the months of January and March. The shops begin a sale of clothes which attracts crowds. 

In the olden days, there were no malls but we had  shopping alleyway at various places in Hyderabad. These places were Abids, Koti, the industrial exhibition grounds at Nampally.  There were good showrooms which attracted everyone with their beautiful display of clothes.My mother probably adored buying clothes then. She had a green Iron trunk in which she would keep the newly purchased clothes. She would surprise us on festivals and on our birthdays with these beautiful clothes. We were four children with my father working for the central Government. Though he rose up the ladder of hierarchy in his office and was paid well for his services, four growing children meant a lot in the monthly expenditure. To add to it my tall, well built  and healthy mother fell prey to asthmatic bouts. So quick and bad were these bouts that she would turn anaemic. Our friends would lovingly look at her and say that my mother looked pretty and that her pale yellow  colored face made her look beautiful. She was intelligent and would say it was anaemia which was turning her pale. A lot of money went in buying her medicines though she would avoid buying these many times, a severe attack would put her back on medicines. She loved her children and wanted to live long without troubling them.

I was the youngest and my mother loved me the most. I was her ‘poor thing’ who did not know anything. I would stay foolish and be the laziest making her the unhappiest. I lingered around her wherever she went. The green trunk had a lock so we could not open that. Our huge Godrej almirah and this trunk were the two places where treasured goods were kept.

I would keep looking at the Iron trunk and ask her numerous times to open it so that I could peep into it. The trunk often reminded me of Pandora’s box from the fairy tales. I would keep pestering her to show me the magical things inside. She would get tired of my constant chatter and advice me to rest my vocal chords by keeping quiet. She would call my mouth another Pandora’s box. I asked her the reason. She would tell me that my words which were spoken without reason could cause misery just as Pandora had met the miseries in life on opening the box. I would not stop pleading.  I would keep reminding her that with miseries Pandora had also released hope, a reason to live. At times, I would get a chance to peep into the interiors of the box. I could see a few clothes and few precious things as the bank passbook, a small oval box  in which she kept a few gold articles, shining brooch, a saree pin and many more things of her youth.

We were growing, so was she. She would never take me along for shopping as I would trouble her to the core. She was always accompanied by my sisters or my father. I was in class tenth then and my father was posted at Delhi. It was in the month of August when she asked me whether I could accompany her for purchasing a sari for the oncoming festival. I looked at her in disbelief, she seemed to have grown thinner with the repeated attacks of asthma. The glow on her face was disappearing and she did seem a little unwell. I agreed as I felt she would definitely buy me some fast food. She kept looking at all the sarees in the shop, she would pick, feel the texture, and then put it back. The pink with bright blue combination was new in the market and she loved the feel and the colour. She placed it on her shoulder and looked into the mirror. I appreciated her choice. After a lot of contemplation regarding the price, she bought it. I noticed a kind of contentment and peace for a few days. The blouse was stitched and the saree was kept in the almirah. She did not wear it for the festival as my father was not able to come. She kept planning to wear it but never wore it. 

My father came in the last week of November for a week.It was great happiness as we were going to begin the construction of our house on the plot of land we had. Though sick my mother tried to dress well but she did not get an opportunity to wear that pink saree of hers as she fell ill within three days and died exactly a week after my father’s arrival. As they were taking her body for the cremation, the Brahmin asked my sister for a favourite saree of hers, I ran and brought the pink saree though my sisters were planning to give a silk saree. She was covered with the saree and taken to the pyre. When the rites were over, I asked my father whether my mother was burnt on the pyre with her pink saree. He said that the pink saree was given away to people in the cemetery. I felt sad and  told my father that my mother loved it and it need not have been given to the poor. My father said that one has to leave everything behind, even the body which one adores. Years have gone by, but the truth remains the same yet I wonder why we covet things, detest people, adore self and hurt others through words and deeds when the secret of living is giving happiness.

“The things you do for yourself are gone when you are gone, but the things you do for others remain as your legacy” ― Kalu Ndukwe Kalu