Nine Yard Sarees, page 15
“Good. Don’t forget about your work-life balance, okay?” Susanna says as she takes off her stilettos under her desk and changes into a comfortable pair of office slippers.
Ah, yes. Says the woman who has an entire life separate from work. Susanna is married to a banker and has a 13-year-old son. She spends most of her weekends doing recreational activities with her family. From golf at her condominium’s affiliated country club to rock climbing at Kallang, cycling around Pulau Ubin and flying electric kites with her son and nieces at Marina Barrage. The woman functions on an impossibly full schedule that exhausts Shweta just by hearing about it.
Shweta on the other hand chooses to spend her weekends with Modern Madisars because work is her life. Other than Sunday mornings at a yoga studio facing the western coast of Singapore—the turnout there is usually dominated by young Chinese girls in itty-bitty sports bras who graciously offer their help whenever she mishears the instructions and goes into the completely wrong asana. That one hour of social interaction per week is more than enough. After all, as strange as it might sound to someone like Susanna, Shweta finds much more meaning and genuine joy in her work than in people.
“Yeah, yeah. I remember, Susanna.” She thinks of how just last week, she crashed into a wall after falling out of the Warrior III pose at yoga. “Balance, balance.”
Come Friday morning though, she already regrets being cornered into an abrupt day off. But her business partner does have a point; Shweta had been in so much arthritic pain three days ago that she had to briefly step out of an in-house meeting. Are these growing pains of a soon-to-be senior? At least her flat is quiet today, without the noise of the neighbour’s kids playing or families rushing out for the weekend.
Her three-room HDB flat, nestled between Telok Blangah and Tanjong Pagar, was a resale unit that she had bought with a housing loan right after turning 35. She liked how much natural light the flat got, that it was on the 15th floor, and that the previous owners, a family of five, were Hindu too. Her older brother Srinivasan, however, had not been so pleased because the flat solidified the fact that she was never going to get married, never having children of her own, never becoming a ‘proper woman’. She on the other hand, was thrilled. Hell, she was 35 going on 36, unmarried, with her own property and a budding business idea. By her own barometer, she was successful and perhaps even more so for having done it all by herself.
Now, decades on, what was just an idea has grown steadily into reality. In the local fashion market, Modern Madisars has become a popular womenswear brand, especially after that ten-page spread in Women’s Weekly. And the most bizarre part is remembering how it all began from just a suitcase. Or more specifically, Amma’s suitcase.
Truth be told, there is nothing much to say about her mother who died when she was just 4 years old. She knew the facts, the same way one might know the date of their country’s independence or the names of the countries involved in the second world war. She knew that her father, who had migrated to Singapore on a ship as a teen, worked for the British as a clerk in the late colonial administration, and that her mother, who was betrothed to him as a child, came to Singapore years after he settled down and was a housewife just like women of her time were. But most of Shweta’s memories of her mother and her father, who passed away soon after Amma, had faded by the time she was in primary school. Raised in a society that prides itself on filial piety, Shweta was often confused growing up because how was one supposed to be a good daughter to late parents she did not even remember? Srinivasan used to scold her whenever she would brazenly admit that she did not remember much about Appa and Amma. But how could he understand? He was 13 then 15 when each parent passed. He was much older than her. Old enough to remember.
Amma did leave Shweta with one solid memory that stood out from the haze of her early childhood. Beside the metal bero in the corner of their one-room Alexandra flat was a black suitcase. It leaned heavily against the wall because one of its four wheels was broken. And even though it was bursting at its zips, its belly seemed to grow every day. One afternoon, when Amma was developing a wet cough that would later lead to her death by pneumonia, she pulled out the bag and laid it gently on its back. Dusting off the belly, she then unzipped it. Three-year-old Shweta, who was playing with an empty tumbler behind her, came forward to marvel at the sight.
Within the suitcase were layers and layers of colourful fabric bordered with golden zari that seemed to glisten under the afternoon sunlight. They were Amma’s madisars. Nine yards of cloth made from a mix of soft breathable cotton and the most exquisite of South Indian silks that Shweta would only understand the value of years later. Seeing her daughter’s innocent intrigue at the twinkle of dust floating out of the suitcase into the sunlit air, Amma smiled and said: “One day, these will all be yours, kanna.”
Alas. If only Amma had known that one day would come a little too soon. Or that Shweta, even as an adult woman, would never be entitled to wear her mother’s madisars either.
After applying a cold turmeric and yoghurt mask on her face, Shweta settles cross-legged into her Nordic rocking chair and listens to the ceiling fan whip the humid air. Purely on reflex, she reaches for the remote and switches on the television. It opens on HBO that is broadcasting re-runs of Sex and the City—her niece Keerthana is a diehard fan of the series too. Speaking of whom, that girl will be getting married soon, to some boy from India. She is not sure how Srinivasan or her sister-in-law Padma managed to convince a girl so adamant not to wed into marrying a boy who is not even from Singapore but all the way from the motherland. Maybe they gradually chipped away at her walls, like a bulldozer in slow but sure motion. She would not put it past Padma who has an uncanny ability to run a person into the ground with her words.
On that thought, Shweta’s phone lights up. It is a message from none other than Srinivasan: “Amma’s thevasam next Tuesday. Arranged the same priest from Brahmana Sabha. I know you won’t do lunch so come for dinner. You can meet Vikram. He will be joining us.”
Ah, Shweta thinks, slightly taken aback by the kernel of moroseness that starts to infiltrate her mind.
Srinivasan has always been in charge of carrying out the death anniversary prayers for their parents. Brahmin sons are given the right to do so, by way of the poonal across their torsos. They are entitled to invite a priest into their homes and perform the homam together with the pandit, offering prayers into a lit fire that will eventually smoke up the entire flat. Despite the decades that have passed, and the widening gap between their lives and their memories of their parents, he has not once failed to perform the thevasam.
On the other hand, Shweta has always been invited to observe the thevasam from the side, to help serve the assortment of dishes cooked up by Padma, her brother’s wife, to the priest, and to eat with the immediate family after. Over time though, she stopped taking daytime leaves for the occasion, opting instead to go to her brother’s for a quick dinner on the same day. Part of the reason is the discomfort she has always felt stepping into her brother’s home. Both husband and wife always find new and increasingly insidious ways to probe her about her lifestyle choices: “I heard you’re working with Selvam Rajendran’s company to develop your new app. He’s single, you know. Fresh divorcee.” Surprisingly, the discomfort has worsened in recent years. The children, her preferred buffers, are all grown up now. Krishnan has settled in Sydney and Keerthana, like her, prioritises work over rituals for late paternal grandparents she has never met. Even their lovely helper Sivagami has long returned to India for good to build a new home with the money she saved up. With Keerthana’s fiancé Vikram now in the picture and still no Krishnan in sight, the upcoming thevasam may be the most uncomfortable yet.
Still, Shweta thanks her lucky stars. Unlike her poor niece, she never felt the need for a thaali to be tied on her neck for the sake of her parents. Instead, she has had the freedom to fulfil filial piety in her own pragmatic way.
It was at the age of 36 that Shweta found herself returning to Amma’s suitcase. She was tight on money from monthly mortgage payments, so shopping for anything other than the essentials seemed like a fiscally irresponsible decision. Still, desperate to refresh her wardrobe, she opened the old suitcase and stared into the stack of her late mother’s sarees. Out of the centremost pile, she picked a bottle green saree made of Kanchipuram silk. Her absolute favourite colour. But just as her late aunt and guardian Soma Atthai had once warned, the fabric was in poor shape despite painstaking hours of careful cleaning and drying once a year. The threads were coming apart because they had been kept kodi, unused as if brand new. Perhaps all the pure silk pieces were similarly doomed. Soma Atthai’s only advice for such a situation had been, “You can melt the zari, you know. They are made of actual silver or gold. Real money to be made.” What money was there in a tattering saree? Instead, Shweta rummaged through the suitcase again and pulled out a cotton-silk saree that was salmon pink with red and gold zari. It was in a much better state than the bottle green, with minimal fraying, and the colour, Shweta had thought, was rather trendy. Immediately, she plunged into her project.
Sewing had always been second nature to Shweta, having spent several occasions sewing buttons and patching holes on both her and her brother’s clothes in her childhood. She had always had a clear vision for fashion too, influenced by Parisian runways and yesteryear Tamil actresses like Savitri and Silk Smitha. So, bolstered by her own expertise and the guidance of online how-to tutorials, it took her just under three weeks to design and construct a two-piece salmon pink relaxed suit.
On the top was an unlined blazer, with golden zari from the bottle green reject for the cuffs. And on the bottom was a pair of hemmed trousers with the same zari on either side of the zipper. Sure, there was room for improvement. Like the fact that the blazer did not sit perfectly on her narrow shoulders and slid off her frame often—though the oversized look for women would become fashionable in a decade’s time. Or that the outfit, while fashion forward, was too eye-catching to wear to her job as a regular accountant.
Even so, she cried in front of the mirror the first time she put the suit on. It was not just because she had made something with her own hands. In that moment, it felt as if Amma was embracing her, through the madisar that had now been draped on both their bodies.
From that point forward, the collection only grew. She selected the more usable fabrics in Amma’s suitcase and converted them into wearable work pieces. Then, when she eventually ran out of madisars, she called the only other Tamil Brahmin woman she was close to: Padma. But her sister-in-law immediately refused to donate any of her sarees because she felt that they were not only sacred but also too expensive to simply give away randomly. (As if Shweta was some strange outsider.) Prema, Padma’s younger sister, however rejoiced at the thought of shrinking her overfilled saree wardrobe. She turned up unannounced one evening, with a large jute bag containing seven old pieces: five her own and two her mother’s that had been left behind in Singapore after a six-month stay back in 1995.
By her 38th birthday, Shweta had amassed a capsule collection of 21 pieces and began brainstorming ways to monetise her hard work. Then, upon crossing into her fifth decade, she quit her job and officially registered her company. After which, she scoured listings for a good deal and secured a second floor shophouse space in Chinatown that was being rented out for cheap due to the ongoing economic recession (that would taper off in the following months). A white marble statue of Ganesha was placed in the northeast for fortune. A vision wall was created, filled with both Polaroids of the capsule collection and magazine cut-outs. And finally, with sandalwood incense wafting through the space, Modern Madisars™ came into being.
Just as Kim Cattrall gets some screen time (it’s one of Shweta’s favourite episodes, when Samantha accidentally dyes her entire bush orange because of a random grey hair), Shweta’s laptop pings. It is a new email headlined “Booking Confirmation at Li’s Traditional Chinese Medicine Clinic.” This has to be Susanna’s handiwork. Sure enough, her phone pings again, this time with a message from her business partner that reads, “You’re going. No questions asked. For your health.” Fine. She will do as Susanna says. She is bored out of her mind, anyway, given that her employees are exchanging messages on a separate group chat that she is not a part of (Susanna’s orders) and that daytime cable television is tiresome to watch all day. As the minutes pass, Shweta succumbs. Fine, okay, she will go. How bad can a little TCM be?
Turns out it was bad, but necessary.
“Heard the pain was gone in an instant?” Susanna gloats on Monday morning as if she had done the treatment on Shweta herself.
Ariel, the sweet Malaysian Chinese TCM auntie who spoke Malay as fluently as Shweta in a lullaby tone, had given Susanna a brief rundown on Shweta’s treatment when she too visited Li’s clinic the very next day for her monthly cupping treatment. The gua sha massage down Shweta’s legs had been an absolute torture session but she did find herself falling asleep during the heat treatment around her arthritic knee. It was a short dreamless nap, cushioned by the rhythmic sounds from the air conditioning vent. Her body too seems much more relaxed after two full hours of unadulterated pampering courtesy of skilled hands and a long weekend of rest; in fact, her knee is not stinging anymore. But not wanting to give her business partner any sense of satisfaction, Shweta just sips on her now lukewarm kopi o kosong, evasive.
“Oh, come on!” Susanna flaps a hand in the air. “Is it so hard to admit that you enjoyed relaxing over the weekend for once? It’s not as if I’m asking for anything else. I’m not like Christopher.” Chris is a young metrosexual marketing executive who, on many occasions, has voiced a keen interest in setting Shweta up with his newly single uncle, also a businessman except in the soy products industry.
“I just want you to remember that this business relies on your leadership. So, you cannot run yourself into the ground,” Susanna stresses. “You need to learn to take care of yourself. Take a break from time to time. Work isn’t everything, you know?” After a big sigh, she says, “Anyway, Navina Kapoor from the Young Entrepreneurs programme is coming in at 2.30pm. I will get IT to set up the room. Do you need anything else?”
“Nope. That’s enough,” Shweta responds, perhaps a little too curtly towards someone who is just looking out for her. But she finds that she is not in the mood for unsolicited advice.
Sure, her knee may be acting up. And Susanna may be right to be concerned; she seems to be the only one who cares for Shweta’s wellbeing at all. But despite her great level of empathy, Susanna has never been able to understand Shweta fully. Not this fundamental part of her that craves to be valued, that thrives at work without restraint or shame. Susanna may see it as a lack. A lack of leisure, a lack of rest. But Shweta begs to differ. She’s not running herself into the ground. She’s building her legacy. This is precisely what drives her to wake up and get dressed every morning. This is what allows her to return home every evening to an apartment for one and still feel incredibly fulfilled, not hollow. So, who is Susanna to insist otherwise?
A few hours later, Shweta is seated across from Navina. A 20-year-old Indian girl in a rust Modern Madisars work dress and a befitting pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Being in proximity with someone so young brings Shweta back to her own youth. The way she had been convinced by her brother and relatives to pursue a “stable degree”. How she had assumed she would be spending the next three decades of her life as an accountant earning a decent enough salary. Or that she would get married to a higher-earning man by the time she was 27 and have children before 30. That was how it was supposed to go, at least according to everyone else. Life cannot have turned out more differently. Now, unlike Susanna who spent the last year fretting over her son’s PSLE preparations or the fact that her husband still leaves the toilet seat up, Shweta’s greatest domestic concern is merely whether she has enough bananas at home to attempt a vegan banoffee pie over the weekend.
Navina’s eyes light up. “I read your interview with Women’s Weekly. It was really inspiring!” The girl lifts a clear folder to show off her slightly worn copy of the magazine. “Especially the part about placing sentimental value at the core of your business. Rather than profit-making or performative sustainability. It made me reflect on what means the most to me.”
“You’re only in your second year of...” Shweta refers to the resume printout in her hands. “Chemical engineering. Why entrepreneurship? And why in fashion?”
“Why not?”
Ah, Generation Z. Mouth first, thoughts after. Though Shweta does find the hint of feistiness charming, especially coming from a young girl. Since she too was once much less polished, and much more gung-ho.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound defensive. That was a knee-jerk reaction.”
So, Navina has a natural tendency to blabber. She will have to be trained out of it, Shweta makes a mental note, if she wants a lasting future in the business world that is.
“I was good at Biology and Chemistry at Junior College so my parents insisted that I pursue an engineering degree at university-level. Typical Indians.” Navina laughs dryly. “But I am beginning to see that a degree is just that—a degree. It isn’t really what I’m interested in. And if I don’t try to think outside of the box now, while I am still schooling, I may end up finding myself at a dead end in the future. Mentally, I mean. And I don’t want that. I really don’t think I’ll be happy as a traditional engineer. So even if this doesn’t work out, at least I would have tried and figured out what not to pursue.”
As much as she wants to maintain an intimidating front in front of the new mentee, Shweta breaks into a small smile. She understands exactly where Navina’s headspace is at. The only difference is that Shweta made the same realisation a few years into her accounting career. Not too late, but definitely much later than Navina. Shweta hums and says, “Any way you look at it, you’re in a win-win situation. You’re getting a degree while concurrently trying out other paths. Keeping your options open really is the smartest thing to do at your age. You can only grow from it.”
