Mother’s Hakoba Saree
My mother and eldest maami both used to be very fond of sarees called Hakoba sarees. These resembled Lucknow’s chikankari sarees but were machine made on Swiss Voile fabric that got softer with use. These were mostly in pastel colours and perfect for the hot Delhi summers.
In 1993, my in-laws were visiting us for a few months at Stanford. As this was their first ever travel abroad, we planned trips every weekend to show them around our adopted country. The beach, the parade in the city, Yosemite and to Los Angeles and places in-between. Back then, there were so few Indians in Silicon Valley that if we ever saw another one in a public place, it was normal to go and greet them to ask a few polite questions, and express a welcome to the other visiting parents or to simply say ‘nice to see you’ to other Indians who had settled here. Early years of being an immigrant have a deep sense of loss of all that was familiar from the country of birth and this ritual was a silent commiseration of that. Even as it was good to escape the poverty and eve-teasing of India, I missed the constant connection with extended family and even just the ambient sounds and smells of India. The colours, the clothes, the music, the texture of life that one takes for granted, and only notices when it’s taken away.
While visiting Los Angeles, I wanted to visit Cerritos, a place I had heard about from my friends, as ‘Little India’. It had a concentration of Indian grocery and sweet shops and restaurants plus a few gift shops that sold Indian appliances in 200V to carry back to India as gifts, Indian CD and DVDs for music and movies, and a few clothing stores, all within a couple of blocks of an area of suburban strip malls with banks and hair dressers. It can take several years to get an immigrant visa and back then the rules were such that I had not been allowed to leave the country while the application was under process, without jeopardising it. If I couldn’t go to India, going to Little India was a way to indulge my nostalgia. I had accepted wearing whatever Indian clothes were sent as gifts to me by family in India, with anyone who travelled from there. There was no internet or smart phones to send photos of what I liked or for them to know my tastes. They picked the latest fashions, not knowing that I like simpler old fashioned cottons and silks, in handlooms, with the same basic cut that I insist is ‘classic’ when younger cousins declare its too old fashioned. I also prefer comfort, over style so didn’t care as much for the fitted clothes they sent. I learned to wear salwaars though my preference used to be for chooridaars. If I asked for a blood red saree and would have happily settled for a baby pink but the one brought was an in-between bright peach that didn’t suit my extreme preferences, I wore it anyway. It was a token of affection after all, even though gradually it made me feel disembodied. The few Indian stores we had in California, mostly stocked the latest fancy trends for party wear whereas I like ordinary clothes to work and live in. Small sacrifices don’t count until they accumulate and add up to becoming self-suppression. This is stoically accepted for the compensation is all that the new country has to offer. Shorts and skirts that I would never have worn had I stayed in India. Yet, being in LA made me want to visit the Cerritos neighbourhood.
We had already spent a few days in LA with the obligatory touristy visits to Disneyland and Universal studios. I hate theme parks and was at the end of my rope as the dutiful daughter-in-law. So, as plans for what to do next were being made, I declared that I wanted to go to Little India in Cerritos. All three of them preferred some other touristy spot, so I gently declared, “I want to find a Hakoba saree for my mother. So, how about I drop the three of you wherever you want to go, then take the car to Cerritos to do my thing, and return to pick you guys up later?” They didn’t want to split up to do different things, as would have been absolutely cool with my practical and independent minded birth family. I wasn’t willing to give up so we all went to Little India. I bought sky blue and baby pink Hakoba sarees for my mother, and a lemon yellow one for my mother-in-law, for around $45 each. It was one of the rare times in my marriage that I didn’t just go along but actually insisted on doing what I wanted to do.
Yesterday, I found this Hakoba saree at my favourite Maitri Boutique, the only place for vintage sarees, just like going to my sister’s closet, if I had a sister. All Maitri donors are like anonymous sisters. I have absolutely no use for this Hakoba saree and no one else I know will want it either. Yet, I felt compelled to rescue it. It came loaded with associations and evoked such strong feelings. It has a bit of a muted-bling that reminded me of my mother’s wedding saree. Four years ago, I had to empty out my mother’s home in London, and had hesitated to give away that saree. She said it was okay to get rid of it, knowing that I couldn’t carry too much stuff from UK to India for her, so I had just saved a picture of it. This morning, I am wondering if I’m turning into a hoarder like her, acquiring junk I don’t have the time and space for. Maybe it is time to finally express all that was suppressed in another era. By the time you can visit me again, if you don’t see this hanging someplace in my home as sheer curtains, do ask if I am still hoarding it. If I am, please say you want it and take it away to throw it. Sometimes we need a friend to help with stuff like this. We will share grief and joys and I’ll tell you other stories of ways I miss and celebrate my mother, and get by.
