The Sari and Bindi I Wore for You

I love looking at saris and admiring the saris that adorn women, but I have never felt comfortable in one. I could never see myself working around the house in one, and so have always kept it for special occasions like weddings, festivals or temple visits, all of which have become a rarity over the last few years. I have often felt like a decked up doll in a sari, imprisoned by the yards of cloth that bind me to some strange thoughts that I have about it. I have never bought myself a sari after my wedding. And all those that I have, rest in peace in a corner of my closet, reminding me off and on, about a part of me that I didn't feel comfortable with. I didn't realise until the day you left, which part of me that was.

You always loved me in a sari. You asked me to wear one more often. I didn't quite enjoy wearing one, but I wore one just for you, on that Diwali day. You were always particular about my wearing a bindi, even if I was in a pair of jeans, or just awake and in my sleepy nightie. I still wear a bindi with whatever outfit I choose to wear. I wear it for you, thinking of you. And I will continue to wear that for you.

I remember how we used to go together to shop for a sari for amma for her birthday. I remember how we used to spend hours choosing one for her, so scared about whether she would like it and whether she would want to exchange it. But we would buy one all the same, however scared we were of our choice. Yes, you loved looking at and buying saris for her, choosing the colours with love. I am going to miss those rendezvous with you.

I remember the first Diwali sari you bought me. I think I must have been eighteen. It was a simple mehendi green silk cotton one, with a thin red and yellow thread-work border and a pink brocade pallu. And when I wore it on that Diwali day, I remember how you hugged me as I sat on your lap, and told me how beautiful I looked. You called me a young woman for the first time. I don't think I felt like a woman, nor wanted to feel like one. I guess I just always wanted to be your little baby, your little daughter, who could always cuddle up to you and look up to you. I still have that sari. I don't wear it anymore. But I use it to cover the wooden steps that hold the dolls for Navaratri. I will think of you fondly as I look at that sari drape the wooden boards each year.

On the day you left, I wondered who would perform your last rites. Would I be allowed to? Being a woman? Would your son-in-law be allowed to? There were many thoughts and questions that coursed through me as I sat beside you that night, unable to sleep....watching over you as you lay still and at peace with yourself and the world. Where did my tears go, I wondered? They had dried up. Or perhaps frozen. And in their drying up, they got me in touch with that part of me that lay forgotten and buried deep inside. I now know that they had frozen or dried up for a reason. They made me feel the man sitting inside of me. The man that I didn't quite like. The man who made me feel uncomfortable. The man who wielded power....a power that I was too scared of owning.

That night something shifted inside of me. I felt full of something....as if I was giving birth to something....something raw and powerful and fearless and unstoppable. Perhaps I was giving birth to myself....that part of me that longed to come out and see the world. I suddenly 'knew' what I had to do. I told everyone how I would love to perform the last rites for you, if I was allowed to. I told them how I wanted to be the son that I could never be. And then what unfolded was simply amazing! We found a priest who was amenable and understood my pain and longing. He said to me that I was the son you didn't have and that I had all the rights to perform your last rites.

That day appa, I wore a sari again, for you. Yes, they did ask me to wear one as it was supposed to be done that way, according to the 'shastras'. But I didn't wear it only for them. I wore it for you. I wore it for that part of me that I was giving birth to. The funny thing about it is that everyone thought that I was wearing a sari because I was a woman who was going to perform the rites. Little did they know how I was feeling inside, and that I felt more like a man inside when I wore the sari that day! Yes, that seems to be the only story that feels right. The one I want to hold now. The one that makes me feel complete. And suddenly in that moment, I felt 'whole', 'centred' and 'grounded'. There was a pregnant, palpable calmness and stillness. I didn't know or understand what was happening. I still don't. But this is perhaps one way of making sense of it all.

So yes appa, I played the role of a son that day for you, and for myself. And I think I played it to perfection. I wore that sari, sat beside the priest; I chanted the mantras silently inside while Srinath chanted them aloud; I gave him the grass to perform the rites, I lit the fire that he poured the ghee into; and yes appa, I lit you up too. I set fire to your heart....to your human form. I still don't know how I did that, without tearing up or breaking down. I don't know how I stood motionless, watching you go into the fire that would transform you into ashes in no time.Tears welled up inside, but they didn't flow out. They fell back in. And I don't know why.

All I know is that something prepared me for every action, every step that I took that day. Something took hold of me and made me play that role to perfection. Something coursed through me and left me completely transformed. Yes appa, some part of me died along with you. Yet something else came alive. I don't know what it was, but I know that it must be to do with a fusion or fission of energies....because that is how it felt, inside.

So was I a man or a woman that day? Was I a daughter or son? Was I a human being or the devil or the divine? Was I a rebel or a person with integrity and passion? Was I a change-maker or a person simply surrendering to the flow of life? Was I a social outcast because of my actions, or the one standing on the edge of a world that is being birthed? I simply don't know....and I am happy to not know.....because that is such a beautiful place and space to be in....and to know that I was split so wide open, only so that I could not know who I was anymore....a moment where I completely disappeared....and there were simply no boundaries anymore....

And to think that it all flowed from the sari that I decided to wear that day for you! That was the Grace that flowed into my life that day. I made friends with that part of me that I had pushed away.....the man in me. And I could make friends with 'him' only by wearing a sari. Because that was what 'he' wanted to wear. For you. And the bindi? Well, that is always there. The speck of stardust from which all of us are born and return to. Everything and nothing.