Malvika Singh calls the sari her second skin. That is why her memoir, Saris of Memory, doesn’t come as a surprise to the reader. Her love for the attire, which she happily refers to as an ‘obsession,’ is talked about in depth page after page. Singh blends memory and Indian craftsmanship to weave something that resonates with anyone who understands the beauty of India’s rich heritage of textiles. She writes, “The sari is an unstitched length of cloth, worn across this land in differing drapes, just as the many styles of turbans, all unstitched, and the angavastram, have ensured continuity. They are worn and there is a demand that keeps the looms of India in working order as it were, with the sound of the shuttle repeating the chant. The process is sacred.”
Saris of Memory heavily mentions how India’s art and culture travelled across the globe and the various initiatives Singh was part of. It was in 1982 when she worked with the ‘Festivals of India’ initiative—a series of events held in Britain, later travelling to America, France, the erstwhile Soviet Union, Japan, Germany, Sweden, and China—that showcased India’s rich artistic heritage.
The book talks about the timelessness of a sari, unlike any other garment, which usually falls into the trap of trends. Singh’s writing reminds you of the lovers who are unconditionally in love with each other. That is how close she holds the sari to herself. She says, “I don’t need to drape it properly. I just wear it, and it takes the shape and form it feels like.” Doesn’t that sound like freedom? The boundless, borderless nine yards of cloth has also witnessed India’s independence movement and contributed massively to Singh’s sea of memories.
You say that you’ve got ‘a magnificent obsession’ and it is the sari. When and how did this begin?
I was born in Bombay in 1949. When I was growing up in the 50s, everyone around me was wearing cotton and khadi saris. India was a new country, and there was an attempt to begin a revival of traditional weaving techniques. My mother only wore saris, and all the people in my life at that time were sari-clad. So, for me, it was everyday wear. I was given my first sari at the age of eight during Ganpati Puja by a woman named Leela Mulgaonkar. It was a Chanderi. The moment I joined university, sari was my go-to outfit. It became my second skin. Since 1966, I’ve worn saris. You can do anything in a sari. It is an absolutely unrestrictive length of drape.
Can you talk about how your generation was privileged to witness and participate in the excitement around experimentation?
Like I mentioned, there was this nationalist fervour in the 50s of wearing handlooms. My mother did not wear chiffon. Then there was a revival of all the different types of looms, and weaving techniques of textiles. The excitement was to identify the information technology that rests in the soul and mind of our weavers. There is no book that tells you, ‘this is how you construct a loom.’ It is all in the head, a virtual computer in-built in the human brain. For all of us growing up at that time, the celebration of that hand-me-down tradition that comes orally and through the skills of the hand was the greatest asset of Indian civilisation. When the Weavers’ service centre was set up, contemporary artists would work there with traditional weavers, adding to the colour palette, introducing motifs and patterns and learning from the oral dictionary. Also, stamping their time by adding contemporary elements. There were conversations and organic exchanges with the weavers that transferred onto the loom.
Tell us something about your childhood in Mumbai.
It was a very interesting time. My parents were journalists. India had become a new nation-state. People and professionals were travelling to India to savour the excitement. Bombay was the intellectual and cultural hub. You had films coming out of Bombay, and actors like Dilip Kumar and Meena Kumari acted in those films. They had socio-political and economic themes. There were friends and friends of friends who would visit us. We had writers, poets, and theatre people coming over. It was an open house. Bombay had prohibition in those days. There was no alcohol served. Nimbu Pani (lemon water) was the drink and ideas were the intoxicant. Nobody broke the ‘no booze’ rule. Priorities were different. Everyone was invested in building a new India. We as children were encouraged to participate, hear, listen and ask questions. We were included in the conversations. It was an unusual privilege that consolidated my values and commitment to my country.
Tell us something about your favourite sari from the collection.
If I am going to be honest, I don’t have a favourite sari from my collection. But the cloth I love draping the most is very fine cotton. My favourite kind of cotton sari is a fine Venkatgiri. For me, it epitomises elegance.