In 1909, Allarmelu is nine years old and living a privileged, sheltered existence in Surya Vilas, her family home in the rich, lush environs of Madras in colonial South India. When her mother dies, Allarmelu’s world is turned upside down. On the cusp of puberty and surrounded now by spinster aunts and men, she must find her own way.

When she discovers the theft of her mother’s pomegranate-coloured wedding sari, a precious heirloom passed from mother to daughter, Allarmelu vows to track it down. But tracing the sari is fraught and exposes her to new dangers among hidden mistresses, exotic Russian dancers, and incendiary family secrets. A mysterious diary unleashes an epic tale that flashes back to nineteenth-century India and the tortured provenance of the sari itself – sari looms are set alight, weavers murdered, and marginalised communities silenced and oppressed. But the weavers nevertheless leave their indelible mark on history, in woven secrets that will only be revealed many years later.

The Sari of Surya Vilas is a poignant story of a woman finding her voice against a backdrop of family secrets, betrayals and promises, symbolic of India’s struggle for Independence. It’s a narrative every bit as vivid, complex and breathtaking as the fabled sari itself.

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Madras, December 1909

Dharma tapped the hood three times with the ivory lion of his Malacca cane. He was on a mission and timing was crucial. The rickshaw puller, sweat and salt lines pouring down his back and legs, slowed his running to a stop at the gatepost. The wooden rickshaw (made in China) and its Indian passenger were skillfully set down without a judder. Dharma paid a pice for the four-mile journey and then looked at the wide dial of his B.W. Raymond pocket watch. The second hand was racing with railway punctuality toward a minute past rahu kalam, the inauspicious hour. On Saturdays, like today, it was from 9:00 to 10:30 in the morning. Perfect timing. 10:31. He snapped the watch shut and crossed the threshold of astrology’s malefic powers into an auspicious time zone. Dharma peered at the Madras winter sun; being native, to him it was chill at 72 degrees. He walked purposefully past the gateposts of Surya Vilas. The eucalyptus trees created an evergreen wall between the busy traffic on the High Road and the curved driveway to the house. Allarmelu, his niece, and Kanna, Cook’s daughter, were playing in the round garden bordered with red hibiscus in front of the family home.

Even at that distance, he could hear the grandfather clock chiming the half-hour in the dining hall. He saw the two girls pull up their pavadai skirts to their calves. His niece Allarmelu led the dance and its rhyme:

‘hickory dickory docku, mousu clocku poushindi clocku okita strikeindi, mousu kinda parigithindhi and Kanna shouted with glee, ‘ickory dickory docku!’

When the clock stopped chiming, the girls became statues, and after a count of ten, continued what they were doing earlier. Dharma saw Allarmelu flick the water off the strand of jasmines as she tied them to Kanna’s hair. They both were nine years old and yet, Kanna seemed quicker to move and slower to speak, and would never raise her eyes to address anyone. Allarmelu slid a hairpin into Kanna’s plait to firmly secure a second strand of orange and purple flowers. Then she whirled Kanna round to face her.

‘Promise me you’ll remember it’s ‘Hh’, Hickory, not ickory dickory docku. Say ‘Hh’; otherwise it sounds really pannade, vulgar, as if you are a country bumpkin. Now go, I’ve taught you all you need to know!’ Kanna scampered off, the sound of her anklet bells jingling long after she turned the corner into Cook’s house.

It was the morning of the annual winter picnic. The masala grinder, the vegetable chopper and the runner carried grains, curried meat and vegetables in brass and copper cauldrons to the coach at the far end of the driveway, near the stable. It was parked behind the shiny carriage that would drive the family and its guests to Edward Elliot’s Beach for the picnic. The milkman, who was supervising the logistics, felt very important as he shouted to the food-laden men to make sure nothing should spill. The horses were whisking their tails and flicking the seasonal rain-flies off their ears. Yet more servants were scurrying about, loading the puddings and kulfis into a compartment at the rear of the coach.

Dharma watched the coachman draining a tall brass tumbler. How he too ached for a long drink of buttermilk, seasoned with cumin, salt, fresh curry leaves and grated ginger. It would settle his stomach after last night’s indulgences at the Victoria Club. Fortunately, he had vomited his stomach empty; his head stuffed with dreams. He gazed at the cawing peacock strutting in the garden with its shimmering tail barely touching the ground, ‘rich, beautiful, so bourgeois and bloody bulky’, he muttered.

Allarmelu stretched her bare arms out toward the sky. The peacock’s cry always gave her goose pimples. She heard tapping from the window of her mother’s room upstairs. Mother and daughter waved to each other. Allarmelu glowed with wellness and smiled.

Dharma sneaked up and held Allarmelu’s arm in mid-air. She jumped around to face her captor with both arms latticed over her head. It was a trick that uncle and niece played repeatedly. Dharma knelt, crackling his starched crisp white cotton dhoti.

‘My golden Bangaru! All dressed up. But what’s this? Silk pavadai and blouse, flowers in the hair, gold chain and waistband, and bare arms? How can we have our rich little Allarmelu so poorly turned out? What will your future husband say, A bride with NO bangles? Che che! Let’s see how we can sort this out.’ He poked at her waist and they both laughed. She pouted.

‘But how, Chinnaina?’ she said, considering her bare arms in preparation of something called ‘a husband’. He held her right elbow, straightening her forearm and curling the fine hair on it. They were golden.

‘You see, I am going to turn your hair into gold. Close your eyes.’

She did. He deftly took the ruby-red velvet pouch from his jubba shirt pocket and swiftly slipped one gold bangle studded with pearls onto her hand and drew it up to her forearm. When she opened her eyes she was in bangle heaven. It doesn’t matter, he thought, even though they were intended for…nothing goes to waste. Rule number one: a gift like this comes in handy. His pocket watch slipped out. Allarmelu snapped it open. Dharma saw time slipping away as he fumbled to put the empty pouch back into his jubba.

‘Have you had your milk?’ He was concerned; if Allarmelu had not drunk her milk, the departure for the picnic would be further delayed.

‘It was too sweet. I poured it into the hedge.’ Another pout.

‘How will you be strong and smart enough to play cricket then?’

That was enough. Allarmelu skipped her way in Kanna’s direction, intent on showing off her bangle in the kitchen and drinking a whole tumbler of milk in one long gulp without stopping for air, while Dharma walked into the house.

He had to speak to Chellamma, Allarmelu’s mother, urgently. It was just his style to find the most unconsidered moment, as this one, to have a conference about a seriously significant matter. It had yielded great success in the past, partly due to his timing, but more due to the impatience of others to get on with their task at hand, which he was interrupting. They would give in to his request through sheer exasperation. He did not necessarily remind anyone that he was the youngest in a family of fourteen children and that his siblings had effectively brought him up when their mother died. His helplessness was genuine, charismatic even, at twenty-three.

Dharma was the youngest of twelve surviving children. His mother died delivering a stillborn, who would have been her fourteenth. As a motherless child, he was indulged by aunts and older relatives, much to the chagrin of his siblings. Armed with the family silver spoons, every known appetite of his was met without the least effort; his role effectively became one of a playboy. Dharma enjoyed fine taste and excellent social circles, thanks to Jagan, his older brother, who had set up the first modern south Indian export of animal skins to Germany—crocodile, snake, goat and buffalo. Jagan’s shrewd business sense had never clouded his notion that Chellamma, his only wife, and Allarmelu, their only child, were beyond doubt the real gems in his life; they were the pillars of happiness that Surya Vilas was founded on. Dharma admired his older brother’s good judgment and luck. He was also intimidated by Jagan’s quick temper at laziness masquerading as bad luck. Dharma’s finely sculpted nose, shock of ebony curls drizzling over his high forehead and brown expressive eyes—often mistaken for being considerate—opened doors to secrets, particularly when he was with women. His immaculate selection of attar to suit the perfume of each season often heralded him into gatherings, where other, more powerful men would be made to feel awkward. His calling card was a small ruby-red velvet pouch of loose, pink freshwater pearls, or the occasional gold bangle.

He had entered Surya Vilas, the stately house inherited by Jagan, a house that their father built. His sister-in-law Chellamma had made it a home for relatives near and far. The light streamed onto the sandstone yellow-washed walls and pillars through the red, green, yellow, and indigo-blue glass panels in the arch of the Georgian doorway. The last wisps of smoke hung in the air from the neem-leaf fumigation, to keep mosquitoes away. He crossed the harlequin floor and steadied himself on the teak staircase with its mock baroque balustrade. He hoped this would be the last wave of nausea from the excesses of inebriation the night before.

As he ascended the stairs, he gazed almost in salutation at portraits of his ancestors, mostly men in turbans with pearls and plumes, holding tightly wound scrolls. Dharma was adept at avoiding the creak on the stair in the middle landing and went up two steps at a time. He couldn’t resist inspecting the most fetching subject, whom he resembled the most. He paused. This great-uncle of his had died when he was twenty-nine, of typhus. He was the only one with a military affiliation. The 80th Carnatic Regiment had honoured him for supplying medical remedies for snakebite to the troops quelling insurgents on the Coromandel Coast. Such beauty, immortal! Dharma thought. He avoided the next two steps as there was a well-known creak on one of them. His swift movement made his stomach lurch again. He bowed at the Tanjore paintings of the gods, particularly Rama and Sita at their coronation. Then, he came upon the sole portrait of a female member of the family. Only Jagan could tame tradition by taking his wife out of the customary purdah, and have her portrait painted. She was suitably wheat-complexioned, with a high, almost protuberant forehead. Her thick black hair was parted off-centre fashionably, unlike most women her age. The artist had insisted she smile, showing her teeth; very daring for a respectable married woman. Even the renowned Raja Ravi Varma’s portraits of Hindu goddesses and courtesans had their gaze fixed in the near distance or at a musical instrument or symbolic bird—never directly at the viewer. But here, the artist, who was heavily influenced by the master’s style, made a departure by having Chellamma look straight at the viewer from her almond-shaped eyes under her well-defined eyebrows, with a wide smile. The artist had captured her spontaneity, which had endeared her to the pantheon of Jagan’s dependents, Dharma and his sisters being among them.

When he came to the landing he saw himself in the long gilt-edged mirror. He paused, his right foot not yet resting beside his left on the red coir carpeted landing. He was shocked. The light from the long window on the left clearly showed him a voluptuous red stain of paan juice on his collar. Damn, he bit his lip, how do I explain this!

Last night flooded back. The Italian gentleman Beppo who was introduced to him at the Victoria Club knew a few words of Tamil. Impressive, Dharma had observed; a European taking care to learn the native language. Dharma found Beppo’s enthusiasm for Chola bronze, and Mahabalipuram stone sculpture striking. But his admiration inclined even more toward the Italian’s impeccable sartorial taste. Perfectly tailored suit, cufflinks and cravat. Beppo seemed to know how to keep the ladies flattered, by constantly referring to himself as ‘Your servant’ with them, while never for one moment losing control of the women who were in his care. Russian women. Dancers trained in the Ballet in Russia, who gave such daring performances.

After dinner, the French doors opened out on to the verandah. Women returned from powdering their noses wisened by new gossip and continued in whispers behind their hand fans. Men strolled out to smoke and acquaint themselves with local business, liaisons, and indeed, all the news that concerned Empire. Beppo looked at Dharma.

‘Does kartikai keep the eyes cool? And the red stain on your lips…’

Dharma took out his little silver case with the tightly rolled paan leaves filled with sweet, juicy and opiate condiments.

‘An aphrodisiac?’                          

Beppo and Dharma’s eyes met the way a river bridges civilizations. Beppo picked up the paan with his thumb and index finger, fashionably stained with tobacco, placed it between his lips like a cigar, and then bit the paan. After a good amount of chewing, and when he saw that there was no sign of the disdain that most Europeans wore on their faces against the dreaded and versatile paan, Dharma confidently mentored Beppo in its delights. After the juices had rolled over his tongue, Dharma showed him that ‘there are ways of speaking, and singing with it’.

Then they were swaying, and the world seemed a friendlier place. The opium and wine were swirling through their bloodstream. Dharma and Beppo had crossed the frontier of differences; now they were galloping across a plain of playfulness the way confident men who are comfortable with affluence, without its responsibility, can. They were laughing and as Beppo faced Dharma, he said ‘Amore!’ and a ripe squirt of paan juice shot past him in an arc into the verandah. Dharma was evidently within range for the paan stain to have hit his collar.

The night had run on and Beppo discreetly invited Dharma to his apartments, where they smoked and drank and talked business. Beppo was looking for a provider for the costumes and forthcoming production of an emerging company that was receiving critical acclaim and public attention. Dharma proclaimed himself as the man who could make all this happen, as he felt passionate about their dance.

Another wave of nausea and Dharma came out of his reverie. He whipped out his ivory-toothed comb encased in its silver filigree frame. Looking at himself in the gilt-edged mirror on the landing, he combed through his centre-parted ebony curls, thinking. Then he combed through his pencil-thin moustache for more time to think. The seconds were peeling away, as the scurrying down below to get everything ready for the picnic reminded him. He walked toward the window on the top landing and saw the smoke rising. The kitchen roof was hidden by the plantain grove from where he was standing; its chimney billowing forth the aroma of finely diced onions tossed in sizzling pure ghee with bay leaves and cinnamon bark.

‘Now! Now, just think of now.’ He polished his diamond earrings and the five onyx buttons on his jubba with his handkerchief and adjusted his dhoti till the fine strand of gold amid the green braided border shone. His brow furrowed. How was he going to ask Chellamma for the loan, with this unmistakable stain on his collar? It would have been permissible if he had been with his mistress, Lali, last night. But everyone knew she was convalescing after she had the baby, and no one discussed it. Dharma couldn’t help feeling ‘it’—the affair, the mistress, and the baby which had all been tied together in one lump—loomed like an empress-sized mosquito net that was never open for discussion in the family, who therefore assumed it was hidden from public gaze. His wealth detached him from ‘it’ while his itinerant heart was attached to ‘it’. Dharma had been sliced out of Jagan’s official books and had it not been for Chellamma’s intervening, he would never have been reinstated to receive his monthly allowance in spite of not working. Dharma invested some of it in horoscopes for the improvement of his aspirations toward independence.

Jagan had been gracious to include him in the picnic gathering today. Chellamma could never allow any family member to be excluded, and she encouraged, possibly even indulged, Dharma’s artistic pursuits by saying, ‘If as family we don’t support his artistic inclination, how will he survive? One day it will bear fruit.’ Looking at the stain on his collar he felt another wave of nausea and swallowed hard. He couldn’t afford to let them think he had taken on another mistress, especially after the baby of the first one. While his brother disapproved, Chellamma lavished gifts on the newborn and its mother source of joy to her. And today Dharma hadn’t brought the customary strand of jasmines and coconut offerings from the Parthasarathi temple to appease everyone. He fidgeted with his gold rings as he replaced the comb deep in his jacket’s side pocket.

How could he explain being with Beppo last night? For Dharma, Beppo was new, a rough diamond, unheard of, who had brought a world that was not British, at the doorstep of Madras. He had brought Russian women. And these women revolutionized the spectator’s way of viewing dance. These women danced with such ferocity and bare lily-white arms. They did not tip their toes in satin shoes. They danced bare-foot. They had such pride in their classical training. Their toenails were painted red like their lips, and their strong hair was boldly worn loose, lining their finely spun substantial bodies. They smelt of roses, bringing the fragrance of faraway so close…. He suddenly felt a sharp edge in the jacket pocket. He had it. A spare collar.

The door to the right was open and the cream-coloured crochet lace curtain fluttered. Dharma gave a spectacular cough to announce his arrival in the upstairs library, where women ruled. He nearly kicked himself as he quickly muffled it with his monogrammed kerchief to ensure there were no more untimely accidents with a spray of red juice, even if he wasn’t chewing on a paan at the moment.

‘Dharma, no need to lurk! Your shoes creak. Especially when you creep up the stairs, we know it’s you.’ It was his older sister Gowri. He had barely parted the crochet curtain when her gaze fixed him at the door. She was seated at the round teak table with newspapers spread on it, a magnifying glass with an ebony handle to one side.

‘I hope you’re coming to the picnic? Allarmelu will pout and sulk if you don’t. That could ruin it for all of us.’

‘Of course! Did you doubt it?’ he said as he straightened his jubba sleeves.

‘You seem very busy these days? Investment, at last?’ came from their older sister Ruku in her inimitable nasal tone that had won her the nickname of ‘nosey Nambiar’ merely for the sake of alliteration.

Dharma had concluded that these sisters of his were mirrors of each other. They thought, ate, dressed alike, in spite of their dissimilar dimensions, casting the spell of prehistoricity around them. In brief, anything with life or spontaneity withered within seconds of their gaze. While Gowri was fat and was visibly a lover of sweets, Ruku was bamboo-reed thin, yet greedy and overactive. They both were dressed in pea-green satin saris with peach-coloured Belgian lace trimmings decoratively pinned with silver butterfly brooches around the napes of their white leg-of-mutton sleeved blouses. It was evident that sensible sartorial taste or beauty had not been gifted to them. Dharma decided it was their good fortune to remain unaware of it. However, they hoped their uniformity in attire would attract the attention of family and friends while they promenaded during the picnic on Elliot’s Beach. They had secretly rehearsed their ascent and descent from their designated coach on the footstool under the table.

Dharma picked a pista-encrusted laddu from the silver dish on the table beside the broadsheets; he needed sweetness in a room where lightness was blighted.

‘Investment? Yes… you could say it’s a new investment for our family business…actually, I must speak to Chellamma anni.’ He eyed The Times lying on the table, and noticed Gowri had placed the magnifying glass on an advertisement:

Lemos Patent Lemon clip: John Barker & Co. Jewellery Department.

The crowning Adjunct to your table. Practical, hygienic, Ornamental. The lemon juice goes just where required. No more soiled fingers or tablecloths. Webster’s, the dog-eared dictionary, was beside it. It was evident that Gowri was not going to order an electroplated lemon-clip from Kensington High Street, all that way away in England. Even Dharma, who had scarcely entered a kitchen, knew it had absolutely no function in the grand tradition of Indian cuisines. She was, however, endeavouring to find what ‘adjunct’ meant when placed next to ‘crowning’. The dictionary was the wrong place to start, he knew, as a one-time student of English Literature. Younger brother and older sister looked at each other. He smiled with his eyes identifying her deficiency, and she lowered her gaze feeling diminished.

The Tamil edition of The Hindu was closer to Gowri. She never liked to admit she could read only the Tamil edition fluently, as being seen to read the English paper would have afforded her higher esteem. Dharma often wondered what she was trying to prove as a woman in a world ruled by men? ‘T’was ever thus, and t’will ever be, woman will ever look up to man, Q.E.D!’ he had repeatedly closed quarrels between them.

‘Did you hear the news at the Club? We’re going to get a new government office near Mint and it’s going to be named after Lord Ripon.’ Gowri was persistent that she had read the English edition of The Madras Standard.

‘Not only that! At last, they’ve named Black Town “Georgetown!” That’s after the Prince of Wales’ visit to the Fort. That’ll be good for the family business too, and who knows, you might even find a proper office?’ Of course, it was Ruku. Her principal source of information was the vegetable seller who brought fresh produce for Surya Vilas from Flower Bazaar in Black Town. He lived with his cart, without rent, in a building next to the stables in the Surya Vilas compound. The vegetables were accompanied by juicy gossip from Moore Market near the railway station.

‘Not bad, although you are in purdah, you seem to get a lot of news. Very good.’ Dharma shrugged at the display of information by Ruku and Gowri as if it was shallow. But he took a mental note of it, and ensured nothing he uttered would disclose he was frequenting Victoria Club. Dharma was getting fidgety that his sisters were surpassing his ability as the family ‘news reporter’. ‘More buildings, more contracts. Yes, there’ll be so much to do. We may never have time for living any more. Only business. So, the Picnic…is everything ready?’

‘You must learn to wait,’ the sisters chorused.

Ramulu, Cook’s husband and consummate server entered, offering a silver tray of hot murku to the sisters. Dharma hadn’t eaten. His sisters plucked at the pile. They munched their way through the diminishing murku, looking at him with lidless eyes before they snapped yet another limb off the rice pretzels. They jutted their jaws toward the tray that Ramulu held. Dharma had learned that the prehistoric gaze and jaw jutting toward an item of food was a gesture indicating ‘have-some-quickly-otherwise-it-will-be-dismembered-and-demolished’.

Then with a flutter of the lace curtains, and a cloud of sandalwood fragrance, the deadening scene in the room changed to vitality.

‘My goodness, Dharma!’ came Chellamma’s refreshing voice as she walked into the room, her girdle ring jingling with multiple keys. She was settling the pleats to her lilac Mysore georgette sari. Allarmelu ran toward him holding up her right arm with the oversized bangle he had just given her. Her aunts looked suspiciously at the ornament and then at Dharma. Chellama seemed either oblivious to this or intent on feeding her family again after breakfast. ‘Come, you dear soul! It’s too early and you wouldn’t have had any breakfast! Ramulu, some upumau for Dharma aiya and kapi for all of us, please?’ It was time for tiffin. The ritual of drinking the age-old, home-ground Plantation A and Peabury blend coffee mixed with chicory and hot milk had to be followed before embarking on the annual winter picnic.

Dharma gave a warm sigh as he saw Chellamma. ‘My brother is the luckiest man alive to wake up to her,’ he thought. His sisters stood protectively around Chellamma their sister-in-law, lest his gaze tarnish her brightness. They watched over her and continued crunching on their murku.

Relieved that the atmosphere had lifted, he found himself saying, ‘I’m so glad we are all going together. Allarmelu, look! I’ve even ordered for the tennicoit and net to be loaded in the coach so we can play. Oh! What would we ever do without Elliot’s Beach? The lungs of our beloved Madras…’

‘We must make the most of the weather now. Your brother tells us a lot of changes are afoot in government. At least today will give us all time to have a reunion with family and friends, maybe even rest…’ Chellamma never uttered Jagan’s name, as a mark of respect even while speaking to his relatives.

‘Chellamma, you need to relax, Dharma is always in the resting position!’ Gowri ended with a sneer. This elicited a grunt of laughter from Ruku. Something in Chellamma’s presence brought out a juvenility in Jagan’s siblings. It was possible that she took notice of the underlying competitiveness for her affection among these three. Ruku and Gowri, for their part, would die for their sister-in-law. When Ruku had become a widowed bride at the age of fourteen, a tonsured head and work as a menial hidden from public gaze in her paternal uncle’s home was the future that awaited her. Gowri, who was younger than her and inseparable, was rejected from marriage proposals as it was assumed she carried her sister’s bad luck on her head. The matchmakers put the word out in the matrimonial market.

Chellamma, heavily pregnant with Allarmelu, set out in a carriage at rahu kalam in the heat of the afternoon to Jagan’s Uncle’s home where the sisters were locked in a forgotten musty room at the rear of the house. She knew it was a time when everyone except the cook would be asleep. Unlocking their room, she packed their trunks and without consulting Jagan, brought his sisters to stay at Surya Vilas. No one dared to censure Chellamma’s action, as they were terrified of Jagan’s wrath. Ruku and Gowri’s future, which could have concluded in solitary confinement, insanity or indeed suicide, was branded in their memory. Their loyalty to Chellamma was total, as was her love for them. But Gowri and Ruku were jealous of the affection that she showed Dharma, and he grudged their proximity to her. So there was never a portrait of familial bliss when they were all together.Dharma suddenly looked weary and belittled at Gowri’s remark and the chorus of his sisters’ laughter in front of Allarmelu. It was his turn to feel diminished.

‘Dharma, we’re only teasing. After all, if your sisters don’t tease you, how will you face this beguiling world?’ Chellamma said with charming seriousness, and resolving his feeling of abandonment. He knew Chellamma was the only one who gave his aspirations credence, even if there were never any tangible results. Jagan good-humouredly teased Dharma about being eternally youthful and therefore without responsibility, and the sisters chorused with approval. It was Chellamma who would include him in the business meetings so he could feel a sense of responsibility. Dharma valued that, but life’s distractions were a necessity as far as he was concerned.

The semolina upumau arrived. Dharma dipped his hands in the fingerbowl, and dabbed them dry on the cotton towel that Ramulu handed to him, saving him the exertion of walking to the washstand a few yards away.He dived elegantly into the fare. ‘Wah! Chellamma anni! The upumau your Cook makes is food for the gods! The chutney stirs the buds…’

‘O Dharma, I’m so happy you’re enjoying it! No greater joy than seeing my family eat with relish!’ Chellamma smiled at all the members of her husband’s family with contentment.

‘Bangaru Chellamma!’ they all heard the baritone of her husband’s call from the landing downstairs. ‘Come, my work is done. Let’s go. Allarmelu! Where are you hiding, my girl?’

Allarmelu ran out of the room and stuck her head through the banister.

‘Naina! Look!’

Jagan looked up and father and daughter winked and stuck their tongues out on cue and burst into laughter. All life resumed. Gowri and Ruku picked up their crotchet wraps, while Chellamma rushed to the landing so that her husband could see she was ready. In spite of her planning and getting the entire staff, menu and family together, it was always seen that she was the last to be ready. As Jagan stood on the harlequin floor the gardener’s boy gave a final wipe to his shoes. He placed his talappa on his head and took his ebony cane with the carved silver lion handle. Everyone cascaded down the staircase toward him as he proceeded to the verandah.

The carriage was ascended and Jagan, Chellamma, Allarmelu with Dharma sat in the big shiny eight-seater. Dr Benjamin and Ashwaq Khan with his Begum Zaida formed the rest of the party. Allarmelu had a choice of laps and sat half-and-half on the women. Their perfumes of khus and roja enticed her. Counting their gold bangles and gem-studded rings became an enticing arithmetic lesson.

Another coach carried Gowri, Ruku, Kanna and all the food. The runner, and Ramulu stood on the ramp to serve at the picnic.

Dharma’s heart sank as the journey started. The swaying of the carriage lulled and made him anxious in turns. The conversation between the women and the men was at times collective, and otherwise in pairs. Men spoke in English. Allarmelu had completely ignored Dharma as he watched her consumed in adoration of the women. He noticed how these women spoke in fairly hushed tones mixing Telugu with Deccani, punctuated with English adjectives. So different from the women he met in Beppo’s charge last night. The Russians laughed with their heads thrown back, and didn’t cover their mouths the way Indian women did. They had looked straight into Dharma’s eyes when they asked questions about India. They flew between extremes of expressing how they loved and hated aspects of their visit to India. That vigour, that rigour, he found in their dance. A total self-belief in perfection. He wanted to belong to that.

As he looked on and listened, Dharma was scheming a plan to speak to Chellamma alone. He needed a loan. Plain money, and silk, plenty of it, from her family’s weavers at Seeraivakkam. She was the only one who would understand what he saw in real art. She was the one who saw potential in his incomplete poems and his need for independence. The clicking of the horses’ hooves seemed to make his thoughts whirr and the excitement heighten. Beppo was his horizon. Inspired by him, Dharma could feel the urgency for a new life. But his greater fear at the moment was not the sacrifice of great art, but his acceptance in Beppo’s circle. He had to hurry to make a claim. Otherwise Beppo would cast him out of the revolutionary cultural event of the century—an emerging Ballet from Russia. It was the talk of the town at the European clubs.

Why not ask his brother Jagan directly, Dharma thought? He tried to picture the scene. He could hear Jagan’s words ringing in his head.

‘Yentra nu? You’re a fine fellow! You attempted BA English Honours and failed, at least you passed in airs and graces, now you want to set up a song-and-dance company is it?’

He knew Jagan would see right through him. It wasn’t really about setting up a business or an investment for the family’s future. The home truth was that Dharma needed the money because he lied to Beppo that he could finance the costumes of the forthcoming production of this newly formed, imperially supported company. Beppo was scouting for original materials, particularly southern Indian silk. Attracted by Madame Blavatsky’s legacy of interracial spiritualism in Madras, Beppo was on a visit to seek pure hand-woven silk and an authentic eastern motif; a perfect design for costume and backdrop for the forthcoming ballet that would tour Europe. Where better than India?

When Beppo and Dharma met, it was a natural attraction; neither was interested in money, only in the magnetizing whirl of social meetings and the exchange of ideas, which they could revolve around in—and consequently, what delirious change it could bring. Beppo had opened Dharma’s eyes to a dance and music that was at the edge of change, and its women and men. He didn’t understand it, it was so heady. He felt he had a part in the wider world, as an equal player. He ached for change and a fantastical need for independence.

At the crossing to Elliot’s Beach, which was a part of the Marina closer to the serene end of San Thome Cathedral, the convoy slowed down. Dharma came out of his reverie. The voices of the men droned on, and he remained silent out of deference.

The beach sand was like golden crumbled biscuit. The sea breeze relieved the humidity and took the sting out of the noonday heat. Dharma was enticed by the foam of the sea, stretching far, and folding in wide skirts, as each diagonal wave thudded on the shore. Another two coaches of Jagan’s associates and Chellamma’s family friends met the picnic party. The coachmen and Ramulu had marked a spot that was partly shaded by coconut palms. The temple-elephant printed pandal marquee was hoisted with the help of eager local labour. Carpets were laid out first and then the chairs and teepoys. The wood fires were set up some distance away to heat the cauldrons of fresh crab korma, paya with goat’s trotters and testicles, Uzbek loaves, and Hyderabad biriyani with tamarind curried prawns, masala liver, fried kidneys, and shahi tukda for dessert.

Dharma who managed to busy himself without assisting anyone was visible and within earshot. He decided to start the game of tennicoit. He made Gowri and Ruku one team. They sat on chairs, while he threw the ring on their behalf and they caught it, like two chained terriers, if it fell within their arc of the ‘court’ on the beach. In the opposing team, across the net, were Kanna and Allarmelu running breathless to catch his balletic throws.

Dr Benjamin, a Syrian Christian of Malayali descent, educationist and Professor of English, settled himself in his cane deck chair and began smoking his pipe. Jagan was in a good mood as his Chellamma was around.

‘So Docgaru, how has this past year fared in your opinion, following the Morley-Minto reforms?’ Jagan was skillful in opening conversations that would not border on superficialities.

‘Well, it’s only just been announced. It is yet to be legislated. Doubtless, something has to be said for Ripon’s foresight before he left. He made Madras a local government. The diarchy won’t do us harm,’ Dr Benjamin replied.

‘That too a few years after the King’s visit. Black Town being renamed Georgetown makes me wonder if this is recognition of us as responsible Indians, or dismissal. I can only hope it is good for business,’ said Jagan looking at his open palm as if he was reading his fortune.

Ashwaq was shelling pistas he had brought from his recent visit to Kandahar. ‘Jagan anna, after that Foundation ceremony, at the Clubs there’s talk that the Corporation of Madras building is going to be named after Lord Ripon.’

‘Well it’s because of him they are mooting local government in Madras Presidency. But we must also see the emergence of the Justice Party.’ Jagan looked enquiringly at Dr Benjamin.

Dr Benjamin sighed. ‘It’ll probably be the only hope for all of us who are non-Brahmins.’

‘Gandhi’s call in South Africa is gaining power over people. And he’s making sure that Hindus and Muslims are seeing themselves as Indians.’ Jagan slurped the tender coconut water given to him and picked at the pistas.

‘That Black Immigration act is nothing but a system to enrage everyone, and make sure each one of the natives is identified, and that we move in slow traffic. It’s like cattle counting.’ Dr Benjamin leaned over to accept Ashwaq’s offering of raisins and pistas. The men laughed.

‘To tell you the truth, Ripon building will be good for us. The engineers want all the interiors in teak. Joists, pillars, landings, almost all surfaces, and then there’s the furniture too, Inshallah!’ Ashwaq added with a note of optimism.

‘Wah Ashwaqbai! That will keep you going for generations together! Inshallah!’ Jagan raised a toast with the sweet coconut water.

Dr Benjamin was listening attentively and proceeded to swat a fly with his neatly folded newspaper. He swiftly unfolded it. ‘Did you read Gandhi’s preface to Tolstoy’s letter in New Hindustan? Here, let me read it to you. I couldn’t resist bringing it:

‘“Do not resist evil, but also do not yourselves participate in evil—in the violent deeds of the administration of the law courts, the collection of taxes and, what is more important, of the soldiers, and no one in the world will enslave you.”

‘Who can question the truth of what he says in the following: “A commercial company”—he means the East India Company—“enslaved a nation comprising two hundred millions. Tell this to a man free from superstition and he will fail to grasp what these words mean. What does it mean that thirty thousand people, not athletes, but rather weak and ordinary people, have enslaved two hundred millions of vigorous, clever, capable, freedom-loving people? Do not the figures make it clear that not the English, but the Indians, have enslaved themselves?”’

‘Tolstoy!’ Dharma found himself blurting out. Ashwaq and Jagan were digesting the reading, each in turn wondering whose side Tolstoy really was on. Indians were daily being humiliated with one encroachment or the other by British rule and Tolstoy’s grand reasoning negated Indian humility.

Dr Benjamin looked up from the newspaper and glared benignly at his BA-Honours-attempted-but-failed ex-student. ‘A memory of literature welling up, Dharma?’ he enquired, and Jagan and Ashwaq winked at each other.

‘Nn-o…Professor. It was just that I was making a Russian connection. The Tsar has, I’m given to believe, given his approval of a Ballet led by a certain gentleman called Diaghilev. Absolute magic. I mean, of course I haven’t seen it… I saw the posters. Real art…’ was all that could tumble out. Dharma was in love with Russia because Beppo came with it and the chance of change came with its wave of difference. He had twisted threads together in his head about Tolstoy and ballet. ‘I think Madam Blavatsky has a lot to answer for when it comes to change,’ said Jagan and waved to Chellamma. She and Begum Zaida were rising and dipping in the beach sand as they approached them. ‘I don’t know why every foreigner who comes to India loves to set up so many institutions and counter-institutions. A lot of money going into the railways, but no benefit for the passenger. I hope it doesn’t drain all our money and means in the name of an institution. Blavatsky and her team have set up an institution in the spirit realm called the Theosophical Society. One way of breaking cultural superiority down. But of course, it’s like any club—you need membership. What next!’

‘Can we ever imagine an India without British masters? At least in our lifetime?’ asked Dr Benjamin.

‘I hope so, but it will need to be by constitutional reform. That’s what Mrs Besant is fighting for’, Jagan was emphatic. ‘I don’t think it’s Gandhi’s way. He says he does not want to use force, but he is very forceful in condemning this idea of empire.’

Chellamma had sat on the moda with her hand cupping her face as her elbow rested on her knee. She said decisively, ‘Gandhiji will win. He wants women in the movement as well. That will get India to her feet; men and women and all together. See how in England, the women are also fighting for the vote?’

Begum Zaida, who had been listening intently, asked, ‘what will happen to the law and order if they leave suddenly? Just our churches, mosques and temples will not keep us within limits.’ There was general agreement that there would be chaos if the British left.

‘There may be great forces that will divide us. But meanwhile we must hold together Jagan anna,’ said Ashwaq. Jagan and Dr Benjamin knew what that meant. There were rumours that Muslims and Hindus and Christians would sever ties and even live in separate lands.

The hours billowed into late afternoon. Everyone was in a terrific mood, including Dharma. The biriyani was excellent. There was just one instance where Allarmelu and Kanna cried as Dharma teased them that it wasn’t goat meat they were relishing in the biriyani, but the peacock from the garden. He had to work hard at the insistence of Chellamma to admit to the girls that he lied. The prickly moment was finally soothed by more candy floss, more singing and dancing, till the girls dried their tears and felt the salt in their mouth from the sea air. They concluded that the beach was a body and the sea its tears.

When they returned to Surya Vilas, the customary tea had to be drunk in the library upstairs, with Gowri, Ruku and Dharma. Chellamma heard to them recounting with hilarity all that had happened. When it was her turn, she looked up with a full smile from a sari border she was examining.

‘Why can’t these people darn the saris the way they used to?’

‘I think you need to wear smoother anklets’.

‘I know, Gowri, but that day with the puja I had to wear the ruby-studded ones. The stones in the left anklet were coming out of the setting. That’s what started ripping the threads as I walked.’ Chellamma made her case.

‘Is that your wedding sari?’ Dharma gazed longingly at the subtle gold on the border and across the pomegranate pink body of the sari. It was hand-woven, naturally, but had the perfect design.

‘I know a very good weaver who will make it good as new,’ he smiled to himself.

‘How soon can it be done?’ Chellama’s urgency could be felt in the room.

‘Chellama anni, for you time should be no concern…’

‘It is the wedding sari, it has to be blessed again at the harvest Pongal next month,’ came Ruku’s retort.

‘Consider it done,’ Dharma said as he looked cheerily at his sister-in-law and sisters. He licked his fingers free of the almond halwa that he’d washed down with the cardamom tea. He washed his hands ceremoniously, twirling each gold ring on his little, ring and middle fingers. Then he took out his monogrammed handkerchief with a dancer’s flourish and wiped the diamond, emerald and rubies on each of the rings, touching the corners of his lips. He then flicked open his engraved silver box and took a pinch of snuff.

‘You’re such a dandy!’ Gowri said. ‘I wonder when you will grow up.’

‘When you see the sari perfectly done at Pongal, I will make you mark your words.’

Chellamma had carefully pleated and folded her wedding sari that her mother and grandmother had worn before her. Each succeeding generation had increased the length of the border, as women grew taller. ‘You won’t forget will you?’ she pleaded as she gave it to Dharma.

Allarmelu burst into the library washed and talcum-powdered. ‘Amma, Amma! Look I’ve written a poem,’ she said waving her slate and chalk and ran to hug her mother. Her aunts instantly began singing the refrain from the slate. Dharma felt he had made some advance in coming across favourably, and now he would have to live with the interruptions. He was pleased. He saw Allarmelu, nuzzling her head on her mother’s stomach, catching her hair on the gold key ring. Gowri and Ruku moved closer and undid her strand of hair.

Allarmelu saw the ancestral pomegranate pink silk sari with the sunset orange border interwoven with gold slide from her mother’s arms into Dharma’s hands. Its weight was sumptuous. She could smell its fragrance of turmeric, frankincense and sandalwood. A few dried tulasi leaves fell from the inner folds of the pallu. She felt the cool smoothness of the satin blouse around her mother’s waist, and the smell of sandalwood on the moist skin of her belly. Her mother’s butter-soft hands touched the back of her neck as the sari slid away. She felt the fingertips of her father’s sisters adjusting her plaits on either side of her head. Allarmelu saw the soft brown eyes of her father’s youngest brother resting on the sari, as the clock chimed seven that evening.