Nine Yard Sarees, page 8
“What the fuck.” Vani spits out in outrage, cutting through any last desire left in Mira to rejoice. “You’re a monster.”
No. Mira grits her teeth. I’m not a monster. Not me. What does Vani know about the real monsters that live amongst them? What does she know at all?
“All I did was take a picture, Vani.” Mira defends herself as calmly as she can. But her voice has weakened. “This is what you wanted, no? For me to capture your truth.”
Vani sneers, roughly wiping her wet eyes with the back of her hands. “All you photographers are the same. You thrive on pain. Other people’s pain. And you want to make it yours by capturing it. For what? To show the world? To add a plaque to your damn mantelpiece? Just because you hold a camera and say that you see me for who I am doesn’t make you a saint. You’re all monsters.”
The hairs on the back of Mira’s neck stand. So maybe Vani is right. To some degree. But Mira is not at all ready to confront that. “I’m sorry. I should have asked first,” she manages to say but she does not sound convincing even to herself.
Vani dusts the petals off herself, picks up her handbag, and makes a beeline for the door.
The door. Mira suddenly panics. “Please don’t leave.” If Vani leaves now, it will just be her in this old, abandoned flat. Just her, and him. Worse, whatever happened in this bedroom years ago. “Let’s talk this out. Please.”
“You know, I’m so tired of people like you.” Vani turns the knob and swings the door wide open. It bangs against the closest wall, jolting the whole flat from its grave. “Just using people with actual problems to, I don’t know, feel better about yourselves. Keep the fucking photos, man. I don’t need them.”
Perhaps Mira should try to stop her. But her feet are rooted while her grip over the camera tightens. In the distance, the front gate to the flat creaks open, sounding like a strangled creature. For a while, Mira simply stares at the doorway of the bedroom, the way the last slivers of sunlight shine onto the tiles through the grilles of the front gate. She lunges to the side and pulls out the frailest looking sunflower from the vase. She leaves the bedroom and slowly closes the door till it is only slightly ajar. She kneels onto the ground and places the wet sunflower before her. Like one might upon a tombstone. Regretful, maybe reverent, but definitely not for him. Never for him.
Instead, it is for her—that young foreign woman who was too scared to report the beast to the authorities, who should have mixed rat poison into his daily meals, who ended up quitting months after because of “family circumstances” which then allowed him to die years after in his sleep. Painlessly. The injustice of it all.
And it is for Mira too. For what she had to see and bury under the weight of her chest, a rotten putrid secret for a child still too tender. For the truth she tried to forget and write over, like a palimpsest, with beauty and sometimes, artifice.
Taking a moment to breathe, she looks into the viewfinder.
Then she sees it. The tenth, and final shot of the day.
Though this one will be just for her.
Diego leaps into Mira’s arms when she steps into his studio in the heart of Harlem a week later. He smells of aftershave, his usual citrusy one, and it makes her smile. Ever since she moved to New York a couple of years ago, she has only gone to Diego to develop her films. He has the best prices, and offers up the best conversations, which usually revolve around his eccentric range of customers and his fervent efforts at finding the kind of romance that could land him on New York Times’ “Modern Love” column.
“How was Singapore?” He chirps, putting an emphasis on the ‘g’. He flits back behind the counter, metal chains jangling from the front loop of his jeans to his back pocket. “Missed you, babe.”
Mira shrugs. “Could have been better.” When Diego looks at her expectantly, she adds, “Yes, yes, missed you too.”
He grins. “No hook-ups?”
“Nope,” Mira says and laughs at Diego’s wide-open jaw. Granted, she does have a reputation for one too many sex-capades. “Just ended up fighting with a girl I was photographing.”
“Ooh, sexual tension?” He leans his torso over the counter, smile brimming with expectation. “Do tell.”
“No. Just tension. I mean, don’t get me wrong. She’s beautiful. She’s just... annoying. Because she saw right through me.”
Diego twists the diamond stud in his right ear lobe. “Sounds like trouble. Hand me your film.”
Mira reaches into her tote bag and pulls out five rolls, the first two labelled Melody, the third and fourth labelled Fareeda and the fifth labelled Vani. Diego scrutinises the handwritten labels. “Melody? That her? The babe who got on your last nerve.”
“No, it’s Vani and I think I got on hers.” Mira shakes her head as Diego sweeps the rolls into a plastic box. “I was a dick. Kinda went too far with the shoot. Being in my uncle’s flat again really... just... fucked me up.”
A disapproving pout grows on Diego’s mouth. “I told you, didn’t I? Get rid of that scumbag’s place.”
“I know. I’ve already told my parents to sell it once and for all. I just wanted to try, you know. Replace that room with something beautiful? Morbid, I know. But some part of me really hoped it’d work.”
Diego hums thoughtfully. “I just went on a date last week with this guy who is doing his PhD in Psychology. Said something about how it’s important to physically remove yourself from a space that triggers you—it’s apparently an underrated form of self-care and a way to regulate your emotions. Sounds like advice you should take.”
Mira just sighs. “So, this guy sounds sensible. Seeing him again?”
“Oh yeah, first man to hold the car door open for me in the past year. Chivalry isn’t dead.”
Mira chuckles. “Anyway, what’s your backlog like?”
“Well, one of my regulars brought in 50 rolls yesterday. So, before I start on that, I better squeeze you in.”
“Great. Squeeze me in then. And give me a call when you’re done, will you?”
“Oh, not gonna follow me into the dark room this time?”
It has been a tradition of theirs, sitting under red hues and watching the past come back to life before them. Like apparitions emerging from a time frozen. But Mira is not as thrilled to confront the ghosts from her camera this time around. She knows it will only make Vani’s accusations grow louder in her head. How could a girl so lovely harbour such spite within her? Then again, how could a girl so confident be so easily ruined by criticism? Maybe, they are two sides of the same coin after all.
“I’m not really in the headspace for it today. See you later, Di.”
Three weeks go by without any attempt at communication from Mira. Just as well, Vani thinks. There is no reason why a big shot photographer should or would grovel at the feet of a nobody. Vani makes sure not to bring it up with Keerthana either, as if the shoot had never happened in the first place, even though she knows her cousin, the social justice warrior, would have lauded the idea of photographing ‘real’ bodies and faces.
But one afternoon, a FedEx mailman appears at her doorstep with an unknown package she has surely not ordered herself and asks for her signature. What he safely delivers into her hands is a small nondescript box that feels light to hold. Once he leaves, she walks back into her flat, puzzled as she peers down at the parcel.
“Vani!” Her mother calls after her from the kitchen. “I just got off the phone with a special homeopathy doctor in Chennai. My cousin’s recommendation. He said he has a cure for your psoriasis. Purely herbal. You will be normal in a month, he said!”
Normal. Vani knows better than to satisfy her mother with a response. After all, this is not the first time her mother has offered her a magical concoction in the hopes of making her daughter palatable for public consumption again. “You’re a pretty girl. But you’ll be even prettier once you cure your skin.” Her mother tended to repeat, as if she had not had two decades to wrap her head around the idea of an incurable autoimmune disease. Determined not to engage with her mother, Vani quickens her pace and slips into her bedroom, shutting the door silently behind her.
Settling down on the edge of her bed, Vani impatiently runs the jagged edge of her house key through the tape lining one side of the box and slices it open. Inside is a plastic pocket filled with a small stack of glossy photographs. Upon a closer look, Vani realises that they are of her. Straight out of Mira’s photoshoot. Even though she had told her to “keep the fucking photos”. Slightly dramatic in hindsight if she were to be honest.
“Shit.” Vani scrambles to peel the pocket open and pours the photographs onto her lap.
There she is, bathing in the golden hour, with sunflowers clutched against her face, petals caressing her loathed scar. There she is again, looking straight into the camera with a displeased expression that Mira had called “perfect”. There she is again and again. As she moves from one shot to another, the nine (where did the tenth go?) begin to come together as a larger picture of contradictions. Sliding her fingers across the smooth finish of the photographs, Vani feels herself choke up. This is her. All of her. Exposed in parts—some her own mother will not care to see—but threaded together by chemical emulsion, and Mira’s vision. She peers into the box again. But the only other item in there is the original strip of negatives. Vani has no idea what she had been hoping for, especially after the big showdown.
This cannot be all, can it? Surely there is something more? Vani returns to the photographs and begins holding them individually in her palms. The weight of each shot is barely palpable, but as she deliberately dwells on each image, something much larger begins to weigh on her. Holding up the final photograph, where she has turned away from the camera because she is crying, she realises that she has never seen herself this way before—honest, undone, yet strangely whole. Mira seems to have understood her more astutely than she would like to give her credit for. More than anyone else has. Maybe it was Vani’s own insecurities that led her to jump to conclusions about Mira. Vani lets out a deep sigh and flips the photograph. She suddenly does not have the energy to behold herself anymore. It is then that she notices a square post-it that has been attached to the back with a short strip of washi tape. On it, Mira has left a handwritten note, which reads:
Dear Vani,
It took me some time to find the courage to write to you after obtaining your address from Keerthana. I was avoiding it at first, afraid that what you’d said of me was all true. But now, with oceans and time between us, and after I’ve looked at the final shots, I think I’ve come to understand. What I didn’t tell you that day was that photography came to me after I witnessed something traumatic as a child. At the age of 9. It taught me to see the light and beauty in the world again, even when I believed it was impossible. But somewhere along the way, I began mistaking sugar-coated artifice for truth. Simply because it was easier to live that way. And it was you who made me see that. I have deleted the audio recording from that day. And I have sent you the photographs and negatives in this parcel because they’re yours to keep. Not mine to use. And maybe in them, you will find some truth that makes sense to you as well. For what it’s worth, your truth is beautiful even if you find it easier to believe otherwise. You are beautiful. I can only hope that you will forgive me someday and if you ever do, please write back. I would love to hear from you again.
Sincerely,
Mira
Entranced, Vani traces Mira’s inky scrawl with her fingertips. Slowly, deliberately. When the words finally nestle into the crevices of her mind, she springs up. As if overcome by frenzied energy, she rummages through her bottom drawer for the stash of postcards she had accumulated over the years from family holidays and exhibitions. Especially impatient, she pulls out a postcard at random. She never writes letters, nor can she remember the last time she visited the post office. But Mira has awakened something in her. Something new, even intoxicating. There is enough promise in her plea for Vani to mail out a postcard she cannot see again, containing words she cannot rescind. As she begins writing, her tenderness hovers, just over the horizon.
Nine Yard Sarees
2019
ONE FOOT INTO Manju’s and already, Keerthana’s sinuses are triggered.
The saree shop, Amma’s favourite in Mylapore, is not just flooded with the usual colours and fabrics; there are millions of microfibers, made more obvious thanks to the weak air conditioning. If Keerthana were more suspicious, she would have thought that it was a telling omen, that the shop would become the very cesspit for all the tensions that have been brewing for months now. At the ripe age of 30 though, she simply reaches into her hard-earned Louis Vuitton handbag and pulls out the familiar sea blue Nasonex. One spray of corticosteroids into each nostril, and she feels, almost, brand new. Ready for the battle ahead.
“Paiya, show me your best selections of silk sarees. My daughter’s getting married in three months.” Amma announces loud enough for every salesperson in the store to turn and look at her. “Thank God. I thought she was going to end up like her Atthai.” She adds under her breath. Appa’s younger sister, Shweta Atthai, never married.
Paiya turns out not to be a small boy at all but a scrawny man in his early 40s. He has a thin but respectable enough moustache and is dressed in an untucked blue shirt that is loose around his slight frame, and a pair of baggy blue jeans that does nothing for his rear. Upon Amma’s demand, he jumps to his feet and begins rummaging through the numerous tall wooden shelves that sag from the weight of the sarees they are holding. The sarees themselves have been neatly folded into just-nice plastic pockets, each with their zari, borders, peeking out. One is from Kanchipuram, he says, with “contrast borders”. Another is from Mysore with “a beautiful embroidered pallu” that “you cannot find anywhere else”. There is even a pastel green georgette piece, a new fashion trend amongst the “youngsters” he specifies, rolling his r’s. With the finesse of a trained poker dealer, the man pulls out piece after piece in quick succession and scatters the saree pockets like playing cards across the display table that separate him from Amma, Appa and Keerthana. Still sniffling from her allergies, Keerthana simply exchanges knowing glances with her father—there is no doubt that they are both out of their depth here.
“None of this purple.” She snaps, waving her hand dismissively over the shades of violet over the counter. “I don’t like that. Give me more green or red. This is the first saree she will be wearing to the wedding. The colour must be striking. She should look like Ambal, no?”
“I like how I have no say in this.” Keerthana mutters under her breath, eyeing the shopkeeper’s frantic movements to appease her mother. Appa, who is slouched against the table to her right, shushes her with a sheepish smile; the man would never dream of saying anything against his wife.
It does not come as a surprise that despite being the bride, Keerthana has been left out of the decision-making process once again. After all, this entire marriage has been orchestrated by Amma. From finding her a husband to settling the engagement, discussing the dowry, and finalising the details of the wedding events, Amma has overseen everything with a fine-tooth comb. But unlike those who pride themselves on being in charge or glow from the honour of responsibility, Amma is more the self-righteous, self-pitying type. Each setback, no matter how large or small, is an opportunity to nit-pick. The containers for the door gifts, too simple. The saree patterns for the relatives, too repetitive. The caterer for the pre-wedding prayers, too unreliable. The accommodation for maternal relatives being flown over from India, too grand for the budget: “They think I’m rich just because I live in Singapore.” When Keerthana’s fiancé Vikram called to ask if his family could split the costs for the main ceremony, Amma firmly said no, quoting tradition. Weeks after though, she complained that even the flower arrangements she had selected for the Tank Road wedding hall were “stupidly expensive” and that the wedding could have been done in India “at half the price”. Keerthana almost pointed out the obvious then but bit back her tongue, knowing how her mother would react. They had fought enough by that point, most explosively over her decision to only consider marriage with Vikram after a full year of dating.
“See, I told you your Atthai knows nothing about tradition. This spread here in Chennai is so much nicer than what she showed us.” Amma sneers. Atthai owns a homegrown fashion brand in Singapore, but Amma never likes anything that veers off convention. “This Mysore one is nice. Come, show me the pallu.” Amma orders, snapping her fingers at the salesman.
“Amma.” Keerthana raises her voice. “Talk nicely.”
“I am talking nicely. You don’t interfere.”
“I wish we could have done this tomorrow instead. We just landed this morning.” Appa quietly mutters to himself, patting down his face with his favourite handkerchief. Indeed, their four-and-a-half-hour plane ride on Air India had been terribly bumpy due to a passing storm, with only one of two inflight toilets functioning because of issues with water pressure, and a wailing toddler in the row just before theirs. They are all considerably exhausted.
“Aama, aama, nalla wait pannunga, onnumae kadaikaathu.” Amma snaps, voice dripping with sarcasm, her frustration punctuated by a fat drop of perspiration rolling down her nose bridge. Sure, sure, you wait long, and you’ll get nothing. “Show me another saree, in a dark blue or a pinkish red.”
“What for?” Keerthana asks.
“The prayers the morning before your wedding.”
“Why do we need so many events in the first place?”
“If you are going to do a customary wedding, you must follow all the traditions.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t want this wedding, did I? I just wanted to do an ROM and be done with it.”
