The Saree

The huge black gate of the engineering college opened up to the National Highway. Every morning she walked in through the gate on the access road next to the parking lot and a huge playground in her colourful kurtas with matching dupattas and bindis, students heading out to grab breakfast smiled at her and wished her. I watched her as she flashed her huge smile at them and said “Good morning, how are you?”

She seemed content with life and her eyes sparkled when she laughed. She was in no rush for anything. A broad frame, slightly heavily built, an endearing smile played on her lips as she moved across those corridors. Affection flowed copiously as she adored all those who were younger to her; keen to engage with them, teach, learn and grow with them. She was older than most of us and we looked up to her as she conducted herself confidently and gracefully in classes and meetings. Yet sometimes when I looked into her eyes I saw glimpses of my own pain in them. She was a young widow.

She spoke with articulation and I saw people attentive and engrossed during her lectures. There was something about her face, it was an interesting one; I couldn’t stop looking at it. Her presence was comforting as she simplified seemingly complex situations. Her face displayed that she had weathered many storms with her characteristic calmness. I found it hard to pass by her cabin without sneaking a glance at her. She would be at her laptop smiling away, hard at work or chatting away with a friend. She loved being with people and yet a part of her was aloof, different from the rest. The tinge of mystery which shrouded her made her attractive. At several occasions I found myself gravitating towards her to look into her eyes that sparkled when she smiled and her interesting bindi and dupatta ensembles. I would raise some questions to her about her subject or ask her some facts to measure the depth of her knowledge. She would smile and politely answer them. If she didn’t know something she would laugh and say – “I’ll let you know later”. She never got irritated with my questions and welcomed me with a smile. My day didn’t feel complete without looking at her at least once.      

That semester a younger woman joined the department. Fair skinned with long hair, she was draped in beautiful sarees. She strutted across the corridors as a queen bee and loved all the attention that her sarees brought her. Pink, blue, green and black, her sarees were the talk of the college. Groups of students followed her as she walked along the corridors with her pallu waving to and fro. Even the men could not resist her charm and discussed her over their smoking sessions. I squirmed at such discussions since I disliked her arrogance and was least interested in talking about her. I would ignore such conversations, walk away from them or simply roll my eyes in disgust. She would hardly talk to any of us and chose to stay aloof and disconnected.

Miss Snob’s stock of sarees grew and so did the discussions around them. One day at the coffee table during a discussion on the different colours of her sarees, I suddenly turned towards our lady in kurtas and asked “We haven’t seen you in a saree yet. Why is that so?”

She was a bit surprised at my question but laughed it off saying, “I am not sure if you want to see me in one, it is not a great sight”.

“But I do want to see you in one, I know you’ll look fabulous in it” I said to myself. “Gosh, I don’t think that she knows how attractive she is! It is not your body that makes you attractive but your thoughts and intellect that shine through your eyes that give you your beauty.” I wish I could tell her that. Alas! I could not. The code of conduct at work and my own sense of propriety did not allow it.

That evening was going to be special. The students were celebrating their festival and we all were all attending the cultural events organised by them. It promised to be an entertaining event. The ground was slowly filling up with people. The stage was lit with yellow light. Snacks were being served at one corner near the gate. I was overseeing the preparations for the evening. The announcements had started pouring in from the stage but she was nowhere in sight. The welcome speeches were over and the guests were asked to have snacks and dinner. I turned around and looked towards the snack counter. Across the field there she was, chatting and laughing with a friend. Draped in a white and red saree; with her hair let down she was a sight to behold. The saree adorned her broad frame and she looked very pretty. She looked across the field and our eyes met. I started walking towards her slowly. I noticed her nervousness from afar. She got fidgety as I approached her.

“Ah! A saree! You look very nice,” I said.

Instead of giving me her usual sparkling smile, she lowered her eyes and said “thank you” softly. Her face had turned deep crimson just like the bindi on her forehead.