As a person who is a descendant of indentured indians whose 'traditional' culture has always been a thing to lose or a thing not really spoken about so much... I bought my first lengha today, well my parent got it for me but still... It's the first traditional outfit I'll ever own as an adult...
I don't know if anyone else can relate but the moment the saleswoman pointed out the lengha skirts and started telling me in her very indian aunty way that it was 'all on special from R500 up' and 'baby have to get your blouse sewn and the skirt taken in but the seamstress' ill do it'
And when the soft familiar musky smell of cotton and beads and layers upon layers of buffers and lace and satin hit me, the realisation that these lenghas had been made by women who have been carrying on this tradition since before we came from India. That they sit and embroider in their back room in the same hand sewn way that our ancestors probably did.
There's something so special about when she wrapped the deep almost maroon skirt around my waist. One pin clasped between her lips and her hands smoothing down the gold embroidery, i couldn't help let the little girl inside me who had watched the bollywood stars dance and twirl, jump and leap in excitement.
When indian women from where i grew up talk to you, they tend to view you as a child, specially a child in their family or maybe they just don't want to learn your name and call you 'sweetheart' or 'lovey' or 'baby', which yes is sometimes endearing, but can also be extremely tiresome after they've beeb poking and proding at you for a while.
The seamstress on the other hand was a plump woman with a wry smile and eyes that glinted with mischief. She, in the way of all indian aunties, took my measurements by mildly complementing me and remarking ever so shocked but ever so amused at how large the bust size was. And that it was in fact a very good thing that i show a little flesh - because what's a good desi outfit without a little chicha rolling just over your waist line?
And just like that, the lengha had become mine. This brand new piece of fabric and lace and satin and scarf and gold thread made in the way of my ancestors was mine. Never have i felt so connected to where i came from. Standing there in an outfit shop in the middle of the suburb where outside bollyowood music blended into prayer songs into the smoke from the street vendors and the hundreds of souls who walked outside.
Picking out bangles, eyeing the blues and emeralds, ruby reds, and piercing oranges, the fake diamonds and cheap beads the glitter and the gold. And eventually finding heavy chokers that sit on your neck and glisten with the shine of all your beauty. Nothing compares to making you feel like a real desi child. Except maybe the reward of samoosas afterwards.
Finally feeling liberated and comfortable in your own skin and very much like a princess , in the clothing of your own culture is magical. Knowing that you get to slather on that kadjel and plait your hair and put on a tikki. Just...
