Twenty-six Saris

As I draped my first sari around my body, my hands moved as if they had performed this wrapping, folding and tucking every day for a lifetime. And perhaps they had, in some previous incarnation. The act of dressing in a sari always brings on an intense deja vu.

My twenty-six saris sit on a shelf in my closet, each beautiful in its own special way. Each chosen for some unique quality which appealed to my senses. When I purchased my last sari, I made a promise to myself that I would wear every one of them at least once before leaving this life.

I have worn nine of them. My hands have only to perform the ritual seventeen times more and my promise will be kept. Tomorrow I shall wear the sari with a procession of elegantly decorated elephants, trunks uplifted, promenading across the pallu.

A Gift from Mumbai

Dec. 29, 2007 Lucille Iacovelli

November left in its wake the bitter aftermath of yet another frustrating medical "encounter". After nearly 10 years of dealing with doctors more proficient in duplicity and prevarication than healing, I should not be shocked or angered when they continue on this path. Yet some small part of me always clings to the hope of an impossible miracle... that one of these highly educated and skilled physicians will develop a conscience; allowing them to break the destructive rules by which they sacrifice patients' well being to protect their negligent brethren. It will never happen in my lifetime, but when things get particularly difficult for me, I take some solace in knowing that my voice has focused attention on the conspiracy of silence in the medical profession, and in regard to iatrogenic injury caused by cosmetic surgery in particular.

Still, the advent of Christmas was not something I looked forward to with any degree of pleasant anticipation. December began with increased physical challenges, and the holidays would once again come and go, not in celebration with friends and family, but quietly uneventful, in the company of my loyal cocker spaniel companion. I was feeling rather despondent when I found a notice in my mailbox that a package was waiting for me at the post office. I was not expecting anything and could not think what it might be. I managed to drive the few miles to the post office, barely making it to the counter to sign for the parcel.

I was surprised and a bit confused when I was handed a package which carried the return address of my favorite sari walla in India. It had been several months since I last purchased a sari, but the size and shape of the package indicated that it was , indeed, a sari. The suspense was too much for me. I did not wait to drive home, but opened the package while in the car. Inside was a beautiful sari, with a note from this most gracious and generous man, wishing me a Happy Christmas and New Year! I cried and cried... such warm and joyful tears! This thoughtful gesture from someone half way across the world so deeply touched my soul, bringing warmth and light into the cold dark corners of my heart.

I will never forget this most memorable and meaningful gift and can only hope that my favorite sari walla knows how his kindness has brightened my holidays.

May the blessing of his generous spirit be returned to him a thousand fold!

My Favorite Sari Walla

Sari

Aug 5, 2007 Lucille Iacovelli Leaving my tiny flat is increasingly more difficult, as preparation to get out the door requires more breath and effort than I can muster these days. So I try very hard to make the most of times I am able to venture forth, precariously driving with one hand on the wheel and the other pressed to my throat, allowing me to breathe and lift my head enough to see where I am going. After wrapping myself in a brilliant vintage sari from my treasured E-Bay sari-walla I headed for the library, where the librarian ladies vicariously enjoy my Indian garb while nibbling the home made treats I bring to them. It was a hot and sunny day when my old reliable 1990 Toyota overheated, forcing me to pull off the road and consult the user manual to see what I should do. After a struggle in raising the hood and finding the coolant chamber empty, I approached a woman working in her garden and asked if she would be so kind as to give me some water for my car. She looked surprised, then smiled radiantly and said "Oh! Your gown is beautiful!" The annoyance of my overheated engine eased as her pleasure in my sari lightened my concerns. I thanked her for the water, filled the coolant chamber and headed for the nearest garage. I stopped at a place where I had done business in past weeks. The same man who attended me before was seated in his little enclosure. I got out of the car and once again battled with the hood, trying to quell the ever present angst at the reason for my physical limitations, hoping to get this car problem fixed with the least amount of effort possible. I looked toward the enclosure to see if the man was heading out to assist me. He was not. He was sitting with his feet up on his little desk, hands behind his head, just watching me with a perverse smirk on his face. I waited and waited. He continued to sit and stare, until I finally walked towards his enclosure. Meanwhile, another man from the business next door must have seen me waiting and was headed toward the enclosure, perhaps thinking the garage man was unaware he had a customer. I stepped into the presence of these two men and the body language displayed by the garage man hit me like a slap in the face. He eyed me from bindi to sandals, taking in my "unconventional" (for Cape Cod) attire, with a look of pure contempt. I turned to the other man. His face was open and friendly, willing to help as he inquired about the overheating of my car. He seemed shamed by the garage man's behavior. This gracious man deftly handled the rather dangerous looking job of opening the radiator cap as a cloud of hot vapor escaped, then bubbled and gurgled as he filled the radiator with water and advised me on where I should go to have the car checked out thoroughly. This garage was not even his business, yet he was kind enough to assist me and even refused to take my money when I tried to pay him. All this time, the garage man sat, watching with his vile smirk which transformed his rather nice features into an ugly visage. I have stopped at this garage several times in the past, and this man has always attended me with prompt courtesy when I was dressed in western clothes. I left that garage with half my heart sinking at the attitude of the garage man, and half lifted by the other's kindness. What makes people react with contempt at the sight of something different? What would make a person so judgmental at the sight of a foreign garment as indisputably lovely as sari? I wish this man's bigoted attitude was a rare exception in the American character, but as I later went shopping for groceries and caught disconcerting looks from every direction, I fear this intolerance is more common than I care to ponder. This experience has not dampened my love for wearing saris. It has only strengthened my determination to adorn myself in them as often as possible.. for my own enjoyment and hopefully, to expose my narrow minded countrymen to the beauty of another culture.. As I look around and see virtually everyone dressed as if they are ready for a day of cutting the grass or pulling weeds in the garden, I know my sari momentarily enriches its immediate environment..a bright and beautiful gift from India. Dhanyavaad, favored sari-walla. You brighten my days. Namaste. Lucille Iacovelli Website of my favorite E-Bay sari-walla