Old, Used and Flawed
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A few weeks
ago, well, several weeks ago, well, a whole lot of weeks ago, Michelle ordered
a throw or small bedspread made from pieces of used saris.
She spread
out the throw for show and tell, differently patterned on each side, stitched
together with white cotton thread, in a long running stitch, lines spaced a half
inch apart, a very light quilt. I guessed the sari throw to be about 60 X 90
inches. Despite being made with used saris, the colors were vibrant, the
patterns strong. What I saw was not a blanket or wrap for cool nights, but
dresses and blouses and all manner of possibilities.
I went
online, the usual place, which has a .mex option. There they were, crying out
to me for adoption as well as adaption, and dirt cheap. Not that dirt is
necessarily cheap, but, you understand, it’s an expression indicative that I
could afford one.
My sari
throw arrived on a cold January afternoon. I inspected it. Each side wonderful
with different patterns. I loved it. I wrapped myself in the soft, comforting
folds of cotton and sat down to read.
An hour
later, I was in the bathroom, violently sick. You know what my first thought
was? First thought after throwing up for three hours, that is? Small pox
blankets. I kid you not. After all, it is a tried and proven method of
population control.
I had
neglected to wash my new-to-me item before wrapping myself head to toe, I was
so entranced. I always wash before I wear. Always.
Morning
came. I donned nitrile gloves, finger-tipped my throw into the washer, hung it
on line, the other online, in the sun to dry and bake.
Undaunted, when
evening came I wrapped in my quilted saris and imagined what they might want to
be.
Meanwhile, I
had other projects going, so continued to dream, continued to wrap up when
cold. Until one day, a warmer afternoon in February, I said to myself, “Self, I
really love this as a wrap. Let’s order another and then choose which to use
for garments and which to keep for a blankie.”
Immediately
upon arrival, my new throw got a baptism in sudsy water. I lay the throws side
by side, over and under, contemplated for several days, and chose one for
dismemberment. Have you any idea how long it might take to pull running threads
from a 60 X 90” garment. Long, that’s how long. Long.
Once
dismantled, I discovered I had not two layers of sari pieces but three. Oh, the
possibilities multiplied. Suddenly I had six large and one small piece of
fabric with which to play. Greed set in. Oh, you sly computer, seducing my
shekels from my pocket. I ordered another.
The third
arrived on a warm day in March. I’m pulling the stitches, a few rows a day. While
I pull stitches, the old saris talk with me. I get a definite sense of the
women who patiently threaded their needles, over and over, stitched together
used pieces of still-usable gauzy cottons.
This is
intimate work, pulling out the stitches so patiently placed. Stitches take on
voices, talk to me. One woman is younger, very precise, a perfectionist. Lentils
and curry with a handful of rice burbles over a small flame.
Another, the
eldest one, while not so precise, knots both ends of threads, wants it never to
come undone. With her foot, she rocks a grandbaby in a cradle. The toddlers
whimper for lunch.
The other
woman is just getting through the day, tired, doing her job, adequate,
impatient, cuts blind corners. She worries, worries she won’t make her quota,
worries about the rent, wonders if she’ll make it to the market before the food
stalls empty.
I am
connected with these three different women. I am connected enough to feel
guilty. This is sweatshop work, piece work, paid in pennies. Each woman works
in her home, sitting by a window maybe, perhaps out under a banyan tree, or
beneath a bare 25 watt bulb. Piece work. If you finish one, you get paid for
one. If you finish ten, you get paid for ten. I imagine the gnarled fingers,
cramped and needle-pricked, pushing the needle down one more row.
Is it wrong
of me to buy these goods? Wrong to support the evil overseer? Or does my
purchase mean the woman and perhaps her family eats tonight? My question has no
easy answer; it is an age-old quandary.
I wish I
could talk with these women, tell them what pleasure their stitchery brings me.
We are connected, kindred souls, old, used and flawed, bound together by color
and tradition and love of fabrics, also old, used and flawed.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
End of March
which must mean something.
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