Hazratganj

there is still something left in Hazratganj…heart of Lucknow??

It was prior to the 1980 trip to India that I proposed to my friend Carolyn N.—then still in school at Oral Roberts University in Tulsa, Oklahoma—that I would buy a sari to bring back to her. I inquired about her palette for the upcoming season; she declared that it would be burgundy, black, and gold. My parameters were set.

This was not the first such enterprise of mine on these travels to exotic places with a religious music group, though with the prior one, I had not checked in first with the intended recipient. Extenuating circumstances. Which is to say, flash-in-the-pan inspiration. It was only once I was in Tehran (1978) that it occurred to me that another ORU friend—drama major Rhonda L.—would cause quite a stir on campus by sporting a chador, upping the dress code ante by about a ge-zillion. Judging from Rhonda’s glee upon receiving it, I was spot-on with that purchase, early indication that I could trust my instincts in such matters. But Carolyn was not Rhonda, and I was right to assume of the former that getting prior clearance on color was the way to proceed.

At any rate, it was in Lucknow that I undertook research on sari-shopping, consulting with my host family and a few new friends. They not only advised me on where to go shopping, they offered to accompany me and they gave me a few Pointers for The Uninitiated. For example, they explained that, in addition to the lengthy expanse of the main body of the sari, there are also two other segments to pay attention to. One segment is a stretch of fabric on one end—often of solid color—that is intended to be cut off and made into a matching blouse. The other noteworthy segment is the pulloo, the terminus of the garment that the wearer drapes over her shoulder, after having first wrapped the greater length of material around her waist and torso. Sometimes, because of the eye-level prominence of the pulloo, its design is made to contrast slightly with that of the main body; it may be more highly decorated or may be a reworking of some figural motif.

Equipped with this information, I headed to the central shopping district of Hazratganj to seek out a sari shop. I remember being directed to a low bench that was set at the edge of and facing a roughly 15 ft. by 6 ft. area of floor covered with thin mats. Opposite and facing the bench, extending along the entire other side of the floor, was a bank of floor to ceiling cubbies, each of which contained stacks of neatly folded silk saris, a trove of densely compressed packets of luxury and mystery.

Between me and the cubbies stood the proprietor of the shop and at some distance from him, a barefoot attendant. It did not matter that I supplied details about what I was looking for. “Burgundy, black, and gold.” The proprietor persisted in pulling sari after sari from the shelves, unfurling them with great panache, swirling the fabric around to display the sheen, clenching one end into a knot while dangling the other end to show the drape, fast-flicking his fingers in back-forth-back-forth-back-forth motions to create and demonstrate the effect of folds, crisscrossing the main expanse of fabric with the puloo so that I might admire the complementary treatment of color and figuration on the two different stretches, and finally reaching forward and releasing, allowing the sari to fall about me, swathing me in opulent softness, as though he were pimping a succession of the flimsiest of lap dancers. And then he would start over. Sari after sari. Pull, unfurl, swirl, clench, dangle, flick, crisscross, reach, release, swathe. Sari after sari.

The effect was hypnotic. Marco Polo came to mind and I had a vision of him with his eyes agape and glazed as he tried to take in all the marvels he beheld. The Riches of the East.

The attendant, constantly in motion to retract, refold, and reshelve the garments, could not keep up with his boss, so the saris piled up around me in a dizzying array. If I had blurred my eyes, it would have looked as though I had stumbled upon the aftermath of an interspecies massacre of giant butterflies. (A metaphor that conveniently and ironically overlooks the fact that the metamorphosis of an untold number of silkworms into something very close to a butterfly was aborted by their actual massacre in order to procure their cocoons, as required in the manufacture of the fabric I was so keen on having.)

In the end, I actually was able to allow duty to recall me out of my stupor and to re-engage my brain’s executive functioning in order to comply with the chromatic contract Carolyn and I had agreed upon. I found her a gorgeous and sumptuous silk sari in, well, burgundy, black, and gold. The host family I was staying with took great delight in my request that they teach me how to fold and wear a sari, so that I could teach Carolyn in turn. It was La Cage aux Folles night at the C.V. James home. Everyone assembled, giggling and guffawing at the white man yielding to the peculiar ministrations of the women of the household. Tuck a corner of the sari into the waistband of the petticoat. (I didn’t detail petticoat shopping above.) Flick a stretch of fabric into a series of folds, much as the shop owner had. Circle the next expanse of the sari around one hip, across the buttocks, then around the other hip, pulling the remainder of cloth over the torso at a diagonal. Drape the puloo over the shoulder. Disinclined to overemphasize the bit of gender-bending that was occurring on what was to me foreign soil, I was careful not to sashay as I moved in a gingerly, yet manly, manner around the living room before my bevy of amused admirers. The lesson was a success. I was able to impart the technique to Carolyn the next time I passed through Tulsa.

A next-to-final note: Carolyn, a vocal performance major, decided that as the piece de resistance in her senior recital, she would sing the “Bell Song,” a coloratura showpiece from Léo Délibes’ opera Lakmé, the setting of which is India, the eponymous heroine, daughter of a Brahman priest, gets into mischief—as in death, ultimately, via ingestion of the datura flower—by falling in love with a British soldier. The synopsis of the opera has Lakmé singing this number while wandering through a crowded marketplace. Carolyn, who was wearing a formal gown for most of her recital, arranged for her accompanist to play a solo piano piece, while she slipped into the Green Room and wrapped herself in her sari. She then took a position in the back of the hall and began the “Bell Song” from behind the audience, inching her way towards the stage as she sang. Bravissima, carissima! Brilliant staging! And how fine you look in burgundy, black, and gold!