Brown Girl In a Saree

By Pallavi Verma

When I was just a little girl,

I asked my mother,

What will I be?

Will I be pretty?

Will I be rich?

Here’s what she said to me..

Speech

And she said to me: Pallavi, whatever you be..

Don’t.

Be.

Me.

As my mother sat there on one chair out of four at the dining room table, peeling an orange.

I wondered if the tears in her eyes were shooting stars that she was wishing upon, if so, what did she

wish for?

I wondered if she was looking for an orange that matched the exact colour of the saree she wore, the

saree she wore everyday at 5 am like a duty

I wondered if in the peels and pieces of the orange she was looking for her lost dreams and life

I wondered if she knew she was the orange sunrise and sunset in my eyes. The beginning and end of

my world. The woman who I wanted to be.

My 15 year old self sat on the second chair out of four at the dining room table wrapped up in my

mother’s old saree, trying to be exactly like her when she said- Do. Not. Be. Me.

Do not shoulder any burdens. The world will gives you roles and responsibilities wrapped up in gifts.

Do not make yourself small. Puff out your chest and stand.

Do not let the world wrap you around its fingers.

Do not get lost in the folds of the arms of others.

Do not hold on to promises, people or things. Depend only on yourself.

Do. Not. Be. Me.

The woman who was the sun in my eyes suddenly turned cloudy.

I understood that as a woman the world paints a picture of you and you fight your whole life to

remove yourself from the frame, to remove yourself from that lie.

Every traditional woman in a saree was still stuck in the frame.

She was stuck in there in the kitchen, at home, in the laundry room, in old prayers, in old beliefs, in

roles and responsibilities as a mother, a wife, a daughter, a daughter in law and the giver and

provider in every sense of the word.

She was locked in the frame while her dreams were up there flying looking for a home.

I agreed. I would not be my mother. I would not b unhappy and unfulfilled.

So I set out to be not my mother.

The only rule?

If I broke even one of her commandments. I had to come back to the start line.

And so each time:

I let the word unfortunately or no slump my shoulders, I came back to the start line.

Each time I made myself small along with the other elephants in the room, trying to hide from the

mouse- I came back to the start line

Each time the big bad wolf knocked my house down, the three little pigs in my heart came back to

the start line

Each time people walked out my door and I followed them to look for crumbs of myself so I could

pull myself back together again like humpty dumpty- I came back to the start line

Each time I let the world spin dark circles around my eyes, I came back to the start line.

I was a flightless bird on the train tracks watching my dreams fly up in the sky looking for a home..

When out of the corner of my eye- I saw a 15 year old girl hold up an orange in the sky shouting-

“Mom, doesn’t that look like a sunrise and sunset?”

I followed that sun all the way back home to the second of four chairs at the dining room table and I

realised that my mother’s tears were not shooting stars. They were tears that were clearing away,

removing the façade that I had create of my mother.

As with most kids, I finally realised my mother was human.

Not the woman who knew where my smelly socks were, or my school timetable or my favourite

food.

But an entire human being altogether with stories and victories and losses.

The day the saree stopped becoming a blanket soaked with tears. It became a manuscript that my

mother folded around herself to tell her story.

That day- I decided to be exactly my mother.

But where do I start?

I realised the orange peels were not my mother looking for her lost dreams or hopes, she was just

removing the frame for me so I could paint my own picture.

So, I picked up the orange peel and started reframing. I held on to the traditional woman because I

realised to be a modern woman I didn’t have to leave the traditional one behind.

To be an individual I didn’t have to leave the whole.

I had to hold her hand and bring her with me and let her flow. Not keep her caged.

I took out that old bag of traditions that I had hid in the attic of my heart.

I folded every prayer, memory, story, hand me down ritual, recipe, bindi, bangle, saree, fragrance and

belief that made me who I am.

I tucked it right in the very middle so it could sprinkle light on each step I walked.

So now when a 15-year-old girl comes up to me and asks me- what will I be?

I’ll tell her.

Like me- you’re your mother’s daughter and I..

am a #BrownGirlInASaree

By Pallavi Verma