“Where are you going?”  The man peeking his head out from under the black, nagahide tuk-tuk roof already knows where I’m going.  I’m sure his wife told him to come fetch me just this morning.  The problem is, you see, I’m already claimed. 

“OOooooh,” I say, knowing I am caught in the glistening weave of local tuk-tuk politics, a web of “this territory here” and “loyalties” there.

“Your sari is ready, you must come to my house to pick it up.” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” I say, “I am coming today.” 

“Get in, come right now. I’ll take you.”

“Well, I already have promised to meet Sutha for coffee this morning.” 

“Sutha?” He asks me.  “You going to Alex’s house?” 

Alex is my tuk-tuk driver.  Or, rather I am Alex’s claim, and if I were to take a ride with this man to his house I’d be suddenly shifting loyalty, friendship, the gravitational pull of the tuk-tuk universe.

“Yes, I am going to have coffee with Sutha.”  Sutha is Alex’s sister.  She is a dear sweet woman about my same age with one beautiful daughter.  The night this whole sari escapade started, Alex brought me over to their house to have Sutha teach me how to install my body into the sari I had just purchased.  We became friends, and looking out for me as all friends do - she quickly informed me I had been led astry on the purchase of my sari tunic. 

“Oh, no, no, no, no.”  She pinches her two fingers and pulls the stretchy, tourquoise material of the tunic away from my shoulder.  Then, she rubs her fingers along the satin of the sari, wrinkles her nose and bobbles her head in the very specific pattern that absolutely means “you can’t possibly wear this with that.” 

***

A few days ago, I’d made the mistake of mentioning to Andrew that I’d like to refresh the more modest end of my wardrobe before heading into the conservative villages of the Maldives. I also mentioned how beautiful the ladies were in their saris and that I could rock one of those.  I was...mostly joking... as I'm not sure I could rock a sari, but they really are so beautiful with their scarf trailing behind their left shoulder, caught in the breeze of a woman’s moped momentum. 

And, so... before I knew what was happening Andrew was asking our tuk-tuk driver if he knew of anywhere I could acquire a sari.

“Well, I just need some clothes.  Like that woman's there!"  I point out a woman bedazzled in a particularly nice long tunic with leggins and a scarf. 

“I know, I know, I know....my friend, he has the best cloth business in town.  We will go.” 

And so, in a cloud of dust, Alex maneuvers his tuk-tuk in and among the red busses of terror, cows, bicycles, cars, tractors, children, and construction trucks that all share the same road squeezed one lane wide between the dust and buildings of town. 

Soon, we reach the fabric distirct. Andrew and I lag behind Alex who leads us into a small fabric shop. He reaches the counter, speaks to the man in either Tamil or Sinhalese, but I have no way of knowing which.  The man begins pulling fabric away from a wall that is packed floor to ceiling with colorful bags of material.  An immediate choice becomes obvious when a gorgeous satin fabric the most perfect color between blue and green, reminiscent of one of my favorite shades of deep ocean.  “That one!”  They hand it to me, I touch it, and pull it from the bag.  Beautiful!  I start unfolding and note something unsettling. 

It’s nothing but a long strip of fabric.  One very, very, very long strip of fabric. 

"Okay, you want another sari?" 

“Is this a sari?" I ask, puzzled.  A sari, when viewed from afar is a skirt, with complicated pleats that fall in folds, a top that covers the shoulders and some of the abdomen, and a sash that wraps around the front of the body and flows past the shoulder.  They have patterns and baubles, usually, and it seemed to my untrained eye that they are not just one very, very, very long strip of fabric. 

“Okay, you buy now?”  The man behind the counter asks me.

I look at Alex again.  “Is this a sari?  Or do I need to have it made into a sari?” 

Alex bobs his head in a figure eight with two big loops, then several small bounces back and forth; it's like the original assertion is made then gets smaller as it echos against the walls of the fabric shop.  Is that a yes or a no?  I ask myself.  I don't know.

“A sari?” 

Bobble.

“Hmmmm....”  Alex can tell I’m confused about something and hesitant.  I can tell Alex is trying to tell me something, but what it is...I don’t know. The man behind the counter hands me a rolled up piece of fabric that is a bright turquiose color and gives me the  “Try this on” head bobble - a scoop of nose and chin down, forward, then upward, finished with smaller side to side bounces.  I unroll it and find a very small, stretchy shirt that may be just wide enough to capture the body parts it is intended to capture, but no more.  “I don't think this will fit.”

The men (as this shop is managed by only men) shuttle me into a room barely square enough for me to fit with my elbows akimbo.  In this tiny room, I attempt to peel my clothing from the adhesive layer of sweat between my skin, then roll this tiny shirt over my head and down into place.  The strain and struggle causes an even more sticky layer of sweat to form, and after what felt like an hour and a half, my hair has poofed into a halo of frizz, and I am only ¾ of the way into the tunic.  I give up and take it off.

“I definitely do not fit." 

We try two more tunics, and I continue to harbor the feeling I do not know what I’m doing.  “What about all the ladies I see?  Their tops don't look like this at all.   They are structured, and they have beautiful patterns and fabrics that match their sari.  The men just look at me with blank stares and the “all is fine, this is a fine tunic” headbobble. 

“Let’s go over to another shop."  Alex says, leading us away. 

“Am I buying the Sari now?"  I ask, confused why we are leaving after all that work. 

“No, no, later.”

We leave this shop, and go to the shop next door.  Alex explains our presence once more, and the shop manager begins pulling cellphane bags off shelves and unfurling the contents.  Top, pants, scarf.  Long dress, pants, scarf.  Before long, his whole countertop is covered with sets of three in various shapes, colors, textures, and with various sequined, beaded, and sparkled accoutrment.  I hold one up.  It’s neon pink with tourquoise blue, bedecked with sparkles. 

“Do you have anything with fewer sparkles?"  Andrew asks.  Alex and the man behind the counter look at him incredulously.   Why would you want fewer sparkles!?  “I don't think the sparkles will stand up to the rigors of boat laundry."  I nod.  Fewer sequens would be better.  A flury of activity begins anew, and before long I have another pile to choose from.  They offer the “you try on" bobble, nodding their nose toward a door that leads to the back of house.  I am instructed to try them on over the top of my clothing I am already wearing. 

So I do. 

And, it's...not very flattering.

Andrew gives me a series of thumbs up and thumbs down for various outfits.  Hours pass, and before I know it, Alex has left and returned again for refreshments.  Tea and an egg hopper for all four of us.  Service with a smile, this guy.

I keep asking for something a little less bedazzling, but it truly seems not on offer.  I pare things down to the least dazzling of the lot, and select three outfits for the choosing.  I think they are nice, but I suspect we are making the “wedding outfit” mistake again.  See Travel Lesson Learned #4,447, Tual Indonesia, et. al. Ima and Daim, (2017). 

“Andrew, I want these for the purpose of everyday around town wear."  I hiss to him as the shop keeper and Alex are looking at me to make decisions about the number of outfits I'm toting away.  After all this work, I can't possibly abandon the merchandise, so we tuck three into my bag, return to the prior store, acquire two saris (my every day sari and my wedding sari), and then leave. 

“Alex, is there someone who will sew my sari?" 

“Why sew?"  He asks. 

“Well, how do you make it look like that?"  I say, pointing at a woman. 

“You don't know how to wear a sari?!”  Suddenly, my confusion comes clear for him.  “you’ve never worn a sari before?”  This amazes him, and he makes a sharp right hand turn in the tuk-tuk.  “Don't worry, don’t worry.  My sister will teach you." 

Thus, it came to be that Andrew and I darkened Sutha's door at 7 p.m. needing to be wrapped in a wedding sari.

“First, you tie a knot here.”  Sutha explains as she ties a square knot in the upper corner of the furthest right corner of the stretch of fabric.  “You place it here.”  She says, tucking it into the waistband of my shorts directly above my right knee, “not here, or here” pointing further toward outside of my hip.  Otherwise, you cannot walk. 

“Okay....” I make a mental note, and marveling that the sari is not sewn into any shape at all.  It is only wrapped, folded, pined, and tucked into the shape you see.  Sutha instructs me to separate my feet, hip width apart. 

“Now wrap it around you once, tucking the top of the sari fabric into your waist band three quarters of the way around.”  We do this, leaving a gap for my right leg.  “Now, you can wrap either once or twice around your body.  If you wrap only once, there will be more pleats.  If you wrap twice, there are less pleats.” At this point in the process I have no idea where the pleats come in. 

“Do whatever you would do.”  I say.

“I do both, depends on my mood.”  She says, “we will do two wraps this first time.  Spin.”  I don't understand her comand at first, but she raises one finger in the air and motions in a circle.  “Spin."  She says again, and I realize she wants me to twirl in a circle.  So, I spin around once then twice, while she stays in place spooling out the fabric as I go.  "Good, stop.”  She says when I reach my destination. 

Now, she lets the two loops of fabric fall to my ankles at the floor and she finds the very left most end of the fabric.  She takes one corner, pinches it in her index and middle finger, then proceeds to fold the fabric like an accordion until she works her way all across the width of the fabric.  She makes it look simple, but as I watch I know this is no easy task.  This is how you start the pleats!  The fabric is supposed to lay in perfectly equal, crisp pleats, and so you have to measure the length of the pleat by the width of your hand.  She takes the now pleated fabric and continuing to pinch it with her thumb and index finger places it on my left shoulder, measuring the length that the tail should trail down to my ankle.  “There, now we pin this on your shoulder.” 

She adds a safety pin to my shoulder, to keep the pleats in place.  She abandons that procedure and picks up the two wraps that are waiting for her around my feet.  Some magic happens in this moment and somehow, these get wrapped, pleated, tucked, and then....I’m in a sari.

“YAY!  I’m in a sari!” I cheer, and she calls Alex and Andrew to come see.  This is when she scowls about the tunic (shirt top).

“You like this?”  She asks as she pinches the fabric.

Truth be told...no.  So, I’m relieved when she says it’s not right and that we should custom make one.  So, I ask: “but do you think we can make it longer?” 

“Longer?"  She asks, and I give her hand motions to show I want my stomach covered up. 

“Nooo!" She cries out. She pokes at my belly and says “You are so big and white, you have to show that off!”