Now that Uma is katti with the boys, she spends most of her evenings looking at advertisements in the magazines that her parents subscribe to.
Nothing shows disdain louder than when ignoring someone. Or someones. Darrel, Mo Mo, Venkat, Khalong, seem confused with her. They come a-calling every evening diligently and each time she shoos them away with her scissors. “I am busy, I have a project”, she says with a swift nod of her long neck. The poor boys are perplexed, isn’t she also of their age? What is this major academic work that she is involved in that they are not aware of? They are too scared to ask. Her body language has somehow changed. She does not elicit approval from them any longer. Now with her back to them it is slightly awkward to get her to laugh like before. None of their jokes appeal to her and she goes off to the library at the slightest pretext. Girls! they think and crack the next potty joke. Boys! she thinks and sighs. Not one among them to share her hobbies. Where was the friendship that they spoke so highly of?
Uma had over the holidays acquired a great love for glamour. ‘Style’ is the word she preferred. She wanted everything around her to be style-ish. First there came a fashion show. It was her mother’s idea that she take part since Amma loved to stitch clothes, the sewing machine was always on the run in her house, ‘Singer is singing’ as Nanna had termed it. It was more of a showcase for her mother’s talents than Uma’s interest. In fact Uma was aghast that she was to be participating in something so frivolous. Heroines in her books fell in love with impossible men and trudged great distances to have a glimpse of their loves. Nowhere did they indulge in sartorial exhibitions. She did not really have a choice since Amma was Ladies Club secretary and it would look pretty bad in the camp if she let her mother down. Dutiful Daughter to the Rescue read the headline in her busy head.
So there she was in a halter neck blouse and a chiffon sari that she was coaxed and threatened into wearing. She had agreed on the condition that her hair be parted in the middle. Amma’s idea of a child was side-parting of hair, kept in place with a plastic bow shaped clip which came in all colours. One for each day of the week. Uma was not allowed to grow her hair “Who will make plaits early in the morning with all that cooking…” nor could she make a single pony tail “A pony tail is not scholarly, it indicates defiance….” And apparently middle-parting was reserved for married women or at least older women. As per Amma a child of eleven ought not to pay attention to such trivialities such as hair and its place and position on her head. In fact she whacked Uma slightly each time she remotely looked at the mirror or her own reflection. “Enough, you look like a devil that you are..…”
Given such terrible conditions at home, Uma tried to make the most of it by bargaining her way through this torture. Fashion Shows were for women who read Women’s Era, not her. Ammmaaaaaaaaa….no ….please! Alright ONLY if you do middle-parting for me. Shock. Silence. Shame. “This chit of a girl has acquired such a contrary personality” Amma went about complaining in the neighbourhood but middle-parting she did and thus Uma walked shyly, for the first and last time on the make-do ramp of officer’s mess Kumbhigram in the Nineteen Eighties.
Now, the elders to be polite or maybe they were just being elders started complimenting Uma on how ‘stylish’ she was. That was as unexpected as her mother’s unseemly desire. Stylish was never an adjective Uma had ever associated herself with. She liked to think Obedient, Well-mannered, Disciplined but Stylish? The never before opened magazines from the library started silently making their way into her house and she would pour over them trying to understand what constituted Style. After all how was she to replicate her style if she did not know what she had done to merit the compliment in the first place. She had to hide these magazines from Nanna since he always made fun of Mrs Saxena who read Griha Shoba. “That lady has no idea what a house is, she is always outside why does she need to read anything on how to keep one…?” in fact he made fun of anything that was not political. Either you read the Illustrated Weekly or you were a nincompoop.
In the evenings when Nanna was entertaining his friends with a drink or two and Amma was making snacks in the kitchen she would bring these ‘women’s’ magazines out from her bookcase, where they were sent to languish behind the Amar Chitra Kathas and slowly turn the coloured pages. Utter fascination gripped her young heart. A different world spoke to her through these photographs. Some funny, some poignant, some confusing but above all she felt a connection. She felt she belonged. To the world out there. She understood what they were trying to convey. It was not just love-lorn heroines she could look upto but these contemporary women in bold printed georgettes looking toward her with a frankness she saw nowhere around her. All the ladies she knew had never looked her in the eye. They seemed to spend their lifetime not looking at anybody or anything but just doing.
Uma wanted to look. Stylishly, if possible.
So this is what she would be busy with each evening when the boys came by. Just to check if the old Uma could be retrieved from oblivion. In their boy-minds an evening bereft of their company was oblivion certainly! Uma on the other hand was too occupied in her quest for Style to be bothered with such chunnu-munnus who ran amock in knickers. Her research was going nowhere though, what is Style? was still as pertinent a question in her brain and this was driving her towards more and more unexplored magazines.
On one such occasion Uma happened to look at Debonair, having looked the dictionary up she was aware that the word meant stylish, therefore a magazine she must browse. Suddenly in front of her was a naked woman lying arms akimbo and legs astride on a red sofa. Uma’s heart raced all the way to her mother and came back in embarrassment. She shut the magazine in absolute bewilderment and ran out of the library with the library uncle running after her “Kya hua beta…are you okay?” he having just gotten up from his nap surprised to see this earnest child fleeing.
Henceforth Uma carried a huge guilt in her tiny heart. She had done something she should not have. She was not sure what the mistake was precisely. Wanting to explore the unknown or looking at something that somehow felt wrong or not sharing this knowledge with anyone. Was keeping a secret bad? She was a little more careful in choosing her magazines. She would ask pointedly “Uncle may I read this magazine?” poor library uncle was flummoxed, he was the last one to know anything about what these memsahibs read. Perforce he had to read these magazines so he could answer her persistent questions. She was troubling him no end. Why did she come to the library so much, my luck only! look how sweetly the other children play in the park! he grumbled to himself silently.
After the Debonair fiasco Uma avoided the library if she could. This meant her study of Style had to be done on the streets, in her house, at the neighbours'. In short from theory she had to graduate to practicals. Her detailed study led to chart making and elaborate analysis on her part. How accurate her results were could be garnered much later in life, for now suffice that she took the pains to ponder. Her head was a battleground of tradition versus style. She was trying to come to grips with what was what. How was one to identify one and recognize the other. What were the essential differences and what constituted their natures.
For example: Nanjappa aunty was stylish. Everyone said so. Was it because she wore see-through saris and low-cut blouses? On the other hand buxom Judy who hardly wore anything but the tightest of tight tee shirts especially while playing badminton was not considered stylish. Amma it must be said was never called stylish either, they did say she had a great sari collection, ‘oh teach us to wear it so well’ and all that but stylish? No. It could be the hair Uma thought, Amma had a long plait and hers was a bob. Is that why they had called her stylish? Because of her short hair! Now that she noticed, more and more women with long hair were termed traditional and those with a short bob or a Diana cut were called ‘mod’. So, being modern was being stylish? but Nanjappa aunty wore and swore by saris! Saris were traditional yet she was termed stylish!
Maybe it was to do with texture of one’s clothes? Chiffon, Georgette, Gauzy, Shiny as opposed to earthy, staid, handloom. cotton. Then there was the matter of age, seemed like there was no barrier there, anyone even a eleven year old could be stylish. What about boys, were they allowed style?
Matters of such importance weighed upon Uma these days. She had concluded that everything new and modern and short and see-through and skin showing was stylish while everything else was traditional. Slits, Halters, Mid-riffs, Minis were the order of the day as proscribed by Star and Style that she smuggled home, so that was most certainly that. The aunties in their infinite wisdom had fallen for her halter neck blouse which she had worn, combined with her bobbing bob and chiffon sari, on the ramp that day she must have exuded style.
This saddened her. Uma realized she could never be stylish in real life. In real life she wanted to string flowers in her hair, paste a big red bottu on her forehead, don lots of bangles to hide her thin wrists and wear a Pochampalli to feel the cotton breathe through her bones. She was undecided about anklets but she might opt for them someday. None of this sounded stylish to her. It screamed of tradition. It was heartbreaking to conclude after such elaborate research that style and tradition did not meet.
What if Amma cut her hair? The very thought was anathema to her. Why, what was wrong? She kept trying to imagine it but the image would elude her, escape her in fact. Somehow make-up and Amma, short hair and Amma, backless blouses and Amma did not make sense to her. Even if she resorted to this, Amma would never ever look stylish, she would look cheap.
So is style something that is legitimate on others who are not maternally related to you? A safe tag to label those whom you don’t feel affection for…no no no….thats not true either, Nanjappa aunty for all her faults was Uma’s dream woman. What then constitutes style? None of the mathematics problems took up as much time as this conundrum.
In all this humdrum, other not so benign thoughts also crept into her skull. Is nudity stylish? Can nakedness emanate style? Was a human body inherently stylish? Or was it just a woman’s body that claimed to be so? Uma could not let something so serious to remain un-examined, she must go to the library and look at that Debonair again. See if she can spot style in that cheap woman exposing herself to the world. Did she have no dignity at all? Did style mean that one need not be dignified?
Except that the library uncle had by now started to read all the magazines and since he did not deem Debonair fit for his only reader as young as her, he had hidden these magazines somewhere, God knows where! How was she to conclude her research without a proper study of that brazen bharatiya nari? While she thus waited impatiently for nature to provide some answers, in walked Girotra uncle ordering the drowsy caretaker to ‘jaldi nikalo jaldi’
Take it out he did poor librarian from its hiding quarters and handed it over to the officer who was by now salivating oblivious to the extra stern Uma who eyed him with extreme disapproval. He was not conducting research like her was he? So why was he looking at the magazine with such concentration?
Style was fleeting, style was effervescent, style was what you did with what you had, style was an inherent voice singing through your clothes.
Tradition held you down, cowed you with its history, awed you with its might.
Style sat lightly on you, grazed your skin just so and whispered its presence.
Tradition pinned you to its warp and weft, weaving you into its looms unmindful of any pain or gain.
All this till the Manipuri family showed up to destroy her neatly created dissertation.
Apparently SHE had been the first ever screen actress of Manipur.
A mother of two she was, strange names her girl and boy had, Bam Bam and Mo Mo.
Her husband’s posting had delivered her and their scraggly kids into the two-roomed temporary accommodation right across from Uma’s.
Are all actresses stylish? Was Veda aunty styish? Would she become stylish if just one person said so or is it something many people have to agree upon? How exciting for Uma! An actress opposite her house, now she could study Style with all the patience of a detective.
Despite the wonderful opportunity, Uma was quite upset with this unwarranted usurpation of what she assumed was her territory. Till yesterday, “There might be snakes in there, scorpions too” thus she had shooed away all the tiny tots so that she could climb that threshold of the forlorn peeling yellow building and while pacing to and fro recite Desdemona’s dialogues or Indira Gandhi’s speeches, which she had revised to suit her own understanding.
Now this! Where should she go to practice her public speaking, to the jungle? Exasperated, Uma had decided to dislike the family from the get go. It did not help that her mother had wanted to make the newcomers feel ‘at home’ and had invited them promptly for lunch the next day ‘you can eat with us till your boxes arrive’ (and when would THAT be?).
Amma! You are really an impediment in your daughter’s political growth. Don’t you see, they are choking on that Pachchadi of yours? While the ultra suave pilot father kept mum throughout lunch time, the kids were more than happy to express their contended smiles, their mother was relieved to be back in civilization again after a long and harrowing train journey, well all was well. All in all this was a meal that was to seal everyone's fate especially Uma’s.
Amma packed dinner for them and that was it. Aunty and she were now best friends.
A woman from Vijaywada and a Meiti screen goddess called Veda.
“Uma take this Pappu to Veda aunty”, “Uma ask Veda aunty if she wants more Pulusu”, “Uma see if Mo Mo and Bam Bam want to picnic with us”. It was disgusting how adults let glamour decide friendships. What was so spectacular about being an actress? That not only her but her whole family has to be fed. At all hours! Eessh! Not that she did not like the Manipuri mem but this fawning on her mother’s part she abhorred. Not once had there been an invitation from the other side. Not once an expression of gratitude, thanks, regret, nothing. It was grating to see her own mother being so kind while being sidelined in the general scheme of things. Once when Uma refused to rush across with another casserole for the Singhs, “I don’t want to go, why can’t they give us something too?” her mother chastised her by ignoring her and refusing to talk to her for a whole month.
A common enough tactic by mothers to make you feel guilty and learn a lesson. Uma on the other hand did not learn through common means. She felt she was right in her assessment of the family from across and for the reason behind her mother’s excessive fondness for this ‘glamour puss’. A phrase she had recently learnt from the magazines she was stealing from the mess library.
These days after school when Uma returned home she found a strange sight awaiting her. A group of women, as always Veda aunty, would huddle together in a circle with scissors, stickers, gum, felt paper, colourful threads, nails, hammer, all beating away like stone masons. They were all intently making the ‘nail and thread camel and cart’ that Amma was teaching them. It took her mother all of five minutes to look at any dress or design to de-construct it, ‘Why buy’ was her constant refrain, ‘I can make it’ was another. She would look at it with extreme concentration, turn it in, turn it out, give it special sideways glances while the shopkeeper was fooled into assuming that here was a serious customer! Which was never her intention of course. Once she had examined it with extreme care, she let it go leaving the shopkeeper perplexed at his customer reading skills, he had been so sure that she would buy not walk away so easily.
Thus Amma had learnt to stitch, to sew, to knit, to crochet, to make art and craft for the walls, for the house, for the family and now finally for the neighbourhood. Since everyone wanted to learn this magic they congregated in Uma's house, much to her consternation. Not only was the opposite house taken but also her own abode, the one place that ought to be sacrosanct. The good part was that there was some treat or the other awaiting her upon her return from the drudgery of school. One day it would be Saboodana that Mrs Sawant had made another day it would be Radha Ballabh by Mrs Patnaik, yet another day Amma herself would make Pesarattu, there was no dearth of goodies on such evenings. The laughter, the chatter, the glitter, the flutter of those late lazy afternoons was immense. In Uma’s mind they etched forever a desire to be a housewife, to be the light of the house. A house that would attract all and sundry, kids and adults, art and craft, food and frolic. Despite an inherent feministic streak, our Uma could henceforth never turn into those bra-burning types. She might be angry at how women were treated but her anger never spilled over to the institution of marriage. And housewives to her were holy. A group of beings who transformed an itsy bitsy run down two room accommodation into an abode, a haven, a throbbing thrumming territory of terrific tasks.
This had meant that the respective kids also frequented her tiny space even when she wanted to be just quiet and retreat into her world. Mo Mo and Bam Bam trailing behind him were permanent fixtures now. Constantly running about from one house to another as though this was a relay race and making her giddy with their chatter and high spirits.
With these Batik and Appliqué sessions started another trend, each time there was a mess party where children below eighteen were not allowed, Veda aunty and Amma put Tulasi the taskmaster incharge of their wellbeing and bundled all of them in Uma’s house to eat and sleep or make merry as they would deem fit.
These evenings would have been fun if only the two Meiti morons could keep their clothes on. As soon as one started yawning the other would start stripping. Apparently, in their hometown no one wore clothes to bed! Not only that they did not know how to keep still, how to keep shush, how to let the night creep in while one settles into the arms of the warm blanket. This made Uma very unhappy. She disliked nudity of all sorts and any hint at cheapness, a misdemeanour, irked her high thinking mind. True she had an assorted collection of women in short clothes adorning her walls but none of them were vulgar. Vulgarity was anathema to Uma. Right now in her mind being naked was definitely vulgar.
What was vulgar, she started to think. Could vulgarity be stylish?
A warm Manipuri blanket. Amma had brought this back with her after her trip to Imphal. From the women’s market, woven by women. In Manipur women wove everything, blankets, shawls, clothes, Mekhla Chador. This is what Veda aunty always wore to parties, she looked resplendent in it no doubt. Maybe that is why Amma likes her so much thought Uma. She too wore traditional handloomed clothes unlike other aunties who were always crooning about chiffon or georgette. Handloom for Amma was very important. It not only represented taste but also meant that you were supporting a skill, a craft, a community who had been weaving in this manner for centuries, to wear such high art, wasn’t that more worthwhile than draping a Japanese silk which was store bought and cost you a month’s salary?
Amma’s another desire was also to somehow convince Veda aunty to teach her daughter some Manipuri dance. Uma’s one desire was to somehow escape this torture. Dance to her meant only Kuchipudi. She was not going to be carried away by some non-classical butta bomma stuff, the female costume did look like it was made for puppet shows! The big bukram based skirt, so stiff, refusing to yield, the funny conical head gear with a gauzy netty drape falling like Ganga over her shoulders and back.....did Amma really think that this was dance? These movements that did not move, flailing hands in one spot, a standard expression plastered on one’s face, no abhinaya, no mudra, no nritta, no thillana, no tandava….no no no..this dance was not dance and this was not for her. Krishna might have done the Raas but to her, Shiva, the Lord Nataraja, was the epitome of Natyam. She was not going to be pulled into this project of her mother’s. Amma had no discrimination. She talked to anybody and asked anything of them. Uff!
Soon enough Uma was attending her first dance class with Mo Mo’s mother. There was a programme coming up in the camp and what better than to showcase a talented youngster trained by one of the wives. Thus started Uma’s career on stage. With a stiff blue petticoat. She got to put Alta on her hands and feet which she loved and also make-up which she did not love. Strange how aunties sat with lipstick all day. It was the toughest part of her performance, to eat and drink without smudging the clothes, food and glasses. The faint after taste, the vanilla fragrance, the synthetic feel made her rush to her green room right after and wipe the blotch away with vengeance. Uma never understood why make-up was necessary. For dance or otherwise. Did people want to see her or her dance? And did they want to see her, as in her real self, her dancer-ly self, her inside self or just her painted visage?
The one main difference she saw between her mother and other aunties was that Amma never was made-up. Both in her dressing as well as her speech. Her actions. Veda aunty was like Amma. Maybe that is why they liked each other so much.
Uma though doubted that the real reason for the affections lay in the rubbu rolu and not in any common shared interests.
First, ever since these Manipuris were introduced to Dosa and Idli, they seemed to have fallen in love with life itself with a renewed vigour. Either Dosas were sent across ‘hot hot’ or Idlis were consumed five at a time even by teeny Bam Bam. It was embarrassing. The joy on Aunty’s face when she saw Amma grind the dough in her traditional grinding stone, made Uma wonder if this was the Guru Dakshina that she would extract from her unsuspecting mother in exchange of the dance classes, so generously provided, brushing away suggestions of a fee etc.
Amma was generous to a fault but her rubbu rolu was a loyal chef’s assistant. How could she survive without it? Her daily breakfast plans depended on its help. It provided a much needed exercise to her hands as much as it allowed her to sit in the backyard, singing to herself in the sun, while grinding minapappu, pouring a little water now and then to make it softer, pastier, just the right consistency. What would happen to these rituals? All the red chillies that got crushed inside its stone hollows, all the spices that found their way into the Pachchadis. Thinking of all these culinary delights, her Nanna had given in to her mother’s pleas to ‘Please let me take this with me’. That was why a heavy 50 kg grinding stone was transported from the south of India to the north east and it had traveled via three trains, a boat, a three tonner and finally a truck to reach its destination.
This, Amma could not possibly parcel off to her neighbour however friendly she might be, an actress, a dancer, a teacher at that. ‘Sil Pattas are not the same, you just go up and down, flat flat, not round and round. I like round and round’. Veda aunty had taken an extreme fancy to the rubbu rolu and its mechanisms. A flat mortar and pestle that was more common in the north to crush everything from garlic and ginger to green chillies and coriander did not seem to satisfy her needs. When she saw Amma seated on a stool or high ground, feet astride the stone, flicking the dosa batter with the back of her one hand with dexterity and astute timing, while with the other she continued to roll and roll and roll the pestle in a clockwork direction, it imbued in her a sense of glamour. The act itself seemed worthy of a star. The props were essential then to fulfill this picture she had painted of herself.
Uma sympathized with her mother’s travails. I will never do all that. If my husband wants Dosas, he will have to grind the batter on his own. Maybe I will give him company by sitting with him and telling him stories but nothing more. These resolutions were a protection against any future harm. Never once occurring to her that her mother might have actually enjoyed the time she spent with the rubbu rolu. To ponder, to sing, to spend time outside in the sun legitimately without drawing excess unwarranted attention. Otherwise a luxury for a woman with children.
Much later when Amma bought her first Mixie, it was celebration time! No more hand pain, no more massages, no more ‘Oh my God! Tomorrow is Dosa day”. Nanna was vehemently opposed to the Mixie initially, as he was previously opposed to a Gas Stove and later opposed to the Fridge, the Carpet and the VCR in that order. ‘Women are getting lazier everyday, when I was young, my mother got up before everyone else at four in the morning and ….’ Nanna always complained that the Mixie ground Dosa batter was not as good as the hand ground one and so on and on it went. Thanks to Veda aunty Uma’s mother had managed to finally acquire a Mixer Grinder!!
One day Amma announced that she and Veda aunty were going to Imphal. Apparently women in Manipur held a ‘haatt’, an open air market, the biggest in these parts and they also wove their garments, the Mekhla Chador and they were as we could very well observe with Aunty, the bosses in their families. Aunty told strange stories about non-husbands, women’s choice, middle of the nite mysterious visits and male slippers outside the ladies homes...... Uma never quite understood all this, only later in adult life realizing that what was being discussed was the apparently the free sex lives, an offshoot of the matrilinear system that existed in Manipur.
No doubt Nanna did not want Amma to be corrupted by such practises. He forbade her to go. Amma threw a rare tantrum, which in her case was silence. If Gandhiji’s weapon was hunger, Amma’s was speech. She remained mute till she got her way.
• Everyone agreed that Veda aunty was stylish. The ladies who came every evening to craft up their modest bamboo structures could discuss nothing else. “ How well do you know her?” “Does she speak English?” “ Was she really an actress, with heroes and all?” “Was she a flop actress to marry so young?” No one believed Amma when she revealed Veda Aunty’s real age. “How can that be?” they snorted “Impossible. Look at her skin! Her hair! Her clothes!”
• It must be cleared up here that Veda aunty’s ascribed glamour was due to her reputation and not because she looked the least bit actress-y. No make up, no jewelry, no garish clothes, no pouts like the ones she had caught posing in Star and Style. Aunty was clean and simple like her own mother. She had shoulder length silky straight hair which was always in a pony tail and her body was draped in the prettiest of Mekhla Chadors. The Chadors especially were white that she wore, hand-loomed and woven with intricate Manipuri, Meiti patterns. She created a sensation when she arrived which was a few months ago and the ladies still did not tire of eyeing her. A novelty after all both as an actress and as a person. The first Manipuri actress in India was their neighbour. Her children played with their children, how wonderful!
Now Amma wanted Uma to learn dance from this glamorous lady! Uma of course did not consider anything other than Kuchipudi as her birthright. Again a tug of war, between tradition and modernity except here the daughter was more traditional! Amma resorted to her mauna vratam tactic again but Uma was more conniving. “Have you seen the actual dance Amma?” she asked innocently. “Do you like it better than Kuchipudi? if so I must surely learn it” she added with devilish pleasure knowing fully well that Amma could not visit Imphal nor view these foreign dances, especially since Nanna forbade it!
So Amma and Veda aunty did the unthinkable one day.
They took off leaving the four kids in Tulasi’s charge, who was not that much older than Uma but by virtue of being a maid held all the powers of the household in her pre-adolescent hands. She reigned supreme in Amma’s absence, much resented and provoked every now and then by Uma to abdicate this shaky throne.
The two adventurous ladies had boarded an army three tonner going towards Imphal with the usual sob story to the alarmed MTD, military transport driver, of how defence wives have to make do with nothing and a quick visit to the famed All Women’s Market in Imphal was something that was imperative for the well-being of their respective families. Truth be told, the said wives had not even informed their much forgiving husbands of their impending plan, lest they be coerced into the confines of the motherhood penitentiary. So off they went, leaving Tulasi a girl of twelve to do the explaining to two grown men whose word was the very command everywhere outside but not in their own domestic domains: “Memsaab has gone with Memsaab to Memsaab’s house and Memsaabs will stay there tonite and return tomorrow as soon as possible. Memsaab has told me to look after the children while Memsaabs are gone” A maid never took Memsaab’s name of course.
Traversing a rickety, unsteady, hilly terrain each with her new found friend they went to Aunty’s maternal home in Imphal, where Amma met a lot of Veda aunty's relatives, they visited the women’s market, watched the women weaving, shopped with the women, chatted with them, it seemed to her that there were women everywhere….They got delayed to return home and that had had the whole camp agog with anticipation of some bad news, there was curfew in these parts and God knows who would do what. Nagas, Khasis, Meitis, so many tribes so many aspirations, what did anyone outside of this beautiful land know what went on in its confines.
Amma on her return acted as though it was normal for Indian wives with young children to take off just like that and Nanna too never questioned her. Uma was surprised at her not usually meek father! Shouldn’t he be demanding a better explanation from his wife? There, Rama is annoyed when Ravana abducts Seeta, for no fault of hers the poor lady, banishing her to the forest, while here this is clearly gross dereliction of duty and nothing is being said!
Uma firmly believed in the duties of a ‘mother’. What she should and should not do. For example Amma should never wear those silly skirts like Sandra aunty or see through saris like Nanjappa aunty. Such attire did not become someone of Amma’s stature. Similarly, she should sacrifice her interests in the larger interests of her young children and husband. After all, Tulasi could not be expected to replace Amma!!
Upon their return the two ladies who had expected public outrage or at least a scolding from respective husbands had much more to deal with vis-a-vis their young children than with their surprised husbands. That they had gone despite knowing fully well that they could be punished evoked something primal in Uma. Freedom was such a fault then, willing to face any infamy!
Thus instead of Tayyum tha thath tha, thathai hitha hitha tha she stomped Dhin tha dhin tham dhin thang dhin thang all because Amma had attended a full moon night's Raas dance in Imphal and had decided then and there that this is what her daughter ought to do! After all it is not everyday that one gets to learn to dance from a Meiti. Meitis are apparently descended from Gandharvas, celestial dancers and musicians from Indra’s court and soon enough Uma was going to replace Rambha and Urvashi. There is no limit to a mother’s ambition!
Her fake feathers, her fake bead jewelry and her fake happiness at finally being able to perform as a dancer, a childhood dream. Uma was draped in a baby Mekhla and pushed onto stage, just like on the ramp a few moons ago. And just as predicted the whole camp could not get over how stylish she looked in the fake get up, maybe being stylish was just that an ability to being a great fake?
That was how Veda aunty acquired her heart’s desire, by taking Amma to Imphal and teaching Uma to do the Khamba Thoibi and thus on their return from that fated trip Amma boldly announced : “Veda, you can take my rubbu rolu”
Amma could also not stop talking about the Ushop Maten, the traditional Manipuri vegetarian meal served on Banana leaves just like in her own village of Undi Agrahaaram, she went gushing at the grace, beauty and traditions of this jewel like land. No wonder in a fit of generosity and as a way of saying thank you to this unlikely friend from across the road, Amma had gifted her prized possession to Veda aunty, repenting her actions immediately after and always thereafter. There were no more Dosas or Idlis being made in Uma’s house. The grinding stone was gone forever!!
It was not such a bad bargain since in return Amma got a beautiful Manipuri Mekhla which Nanna promptly dismissed with ‘that will not produce any breakfast for us will it?!’ To which Amma counter questioned “maybe now you will finally buy me the Mixie which everyone else has in their kitchen!?”
This new attire was worn at parties and ladies clubs and calling-ons which inevitably elicited excited responses of Ooos and Aaaas and Oh My Gods. You went to Imphal, in a BUS? You stayed with those Naga people? Meitis are same no? No? Accha, they are like us you say? Really? ok ok….. reminding Amma of her adventure and her spirit and thereby making her feel confident and to look more beautiful, sometimes even ‘Stylish’.
Meanwhile Uma’s forays into the world of fashion to decipher Style was acquiring a feverish pitch. She was constantly surrounded by scissors, papers, tape, cuttings from Khatau, Garden Vareli and Only Vimal saris. On one hand there were these terrene saris which were a rage, apparently one need not iron them at all and which Amma had gone to look for in the markets of Imphal but then there was Veda aunty in all her splendour. Always a fresh flower in her hair, always a draped lungi-like Mekhla and a safed Chador flowing to the easterlies, always that soft tender skin framed by that straight black hair bunched in an easy pony tail. Uma would look at the models and then at her dance teacher. Back and forth, back and forth and try to pry out the secret of Style.
Weaving together bits and pieces of what she had heard, read and seen without the distraction of the boys telling her what and how to think Uma finally concluded her research and presented it to her own highness after much deliberation.
Style is:
1. Difficult and needs ironing
2. Complicated and yet comes out looking simple
3. Colourful especially when contrasted with white
4. People friendly and not machine made
5. A Smile which comes from the heart and brightens your eyes.
As an aside after having looked into the nudes that were baring themselves from the centre pages of Debonair, she concluded with all the disbelief of a scientist who is extremely sure of his results and thus cannot comprehend any contrary outputs, that Style need not necessarily involve clothes.
And that tradition and style were like the roots and branches of a tree, one giving birth to the other. The only problem was deciphering which was which. In very few people like the Meitis, as Amma could vouch, it all came together with ease.
Rubbing some off on sidelings such as Uma and her Amma.
