Nostalgia means a lot of things to lot of people... I was lost in my routine or sporadic tasks so much that nostalgia seemed a luxury. But sometimes, some luxuries have a way of slyly finding their way towards the unsuspecting routin'er'; and that's exactly what happened this evening.
I tend to play random music on my phone or switch a music channel on when I do mundane tasks and today was no different. I was busy in the very important task of making sure nothing in the household was even remotely dusty -
Windows - Check.
Side table - Check.
Electronic equipments - Check.
Doors & glass flauntees - Check.
Soul and memories - Pending.
Suddenly the music channel dished out a golden number from yesteryears - paavadai dhaavaniyil paartha uruvama. I smiled the second I heard the song. The song and the image of the attire in question brought back so many dusty memories in a nostalgic flood. I had to stop and let the memories do what they came to do.
The paavadai dhaavani is a beautiful attire capable of invoking a lot more than dusty memories. A playful long wavy dhaavani draped around a paavadai (skirt) that is ankle length or flow-y with a matching short blouse; this attire is the ultimate embodiment of overflowing youthful radiance.
"தத்தி தத்தி நடபதர்க்கு சொல்ல வேண்டுமா நீ முத்து முத்தாய் சிரிப்பதர்க்கு பாடம் வேண்டுமா"
As the first interlude of the song played, the memory of my first and absolute favourite maroon & cream dhaavani flashed before my eyes. I could recall the day amma taught me how to drape one and how there were appropriate postures to be followed to pull it off modestly. I remembered that 10×10 room that became my dress rehearsal space whenever I felt like trying on a makeshift dhaavani with my sister's stolen duppattas and draping it around on a skirt. I remembered the one rupee my thatha lovingly placed in my hand and saying "lakshanama irukku"
I remembered walking around Srirangam temple wearing the same dress accompanied by my cousin during our 10th standard mid term vacations and as she cursed her school for having introduced dhaavani as their uniform, I remembered how I secretly envied her opportunity to drape the beauty around her every single day.
I could almost hear the chaos of the Maada Veedhi where another cousin during another vacation took me on a TVS 50 to Meenakshi temple and I insisted on draping a dhaavani for the visit. The tough time he had balancing me as I sat precariously on one side of the superbike 😆... a memory we both won't forget. I eventually slipped and almost fell but managed to land on my feet. "What happened" asked my startled cousin I simply said " I said stop, thought you heard and got off. I have to buy flowers" "Romba mukkiyama ippo?!" He retorted... the lady selling flowers sensed her business op and coaxed him in her chaste Madurai Tamizh "Akka kaekaraanga illa, vaangi kudunga"
இங்கே என் காலமெல்லாம் முடிந்து விட்டாலும் ஓர் இரவினிலே முதுமயை நான் அடைந்து விட்டாலும்...
The song made its way through some more inroads of memory and I recalled a random wedding where I wore a dhaavani and got my first glimpses of male attention and novice poetry. I was happily playing with a bunch of kids - not realising that the dress so easily revealed my first teenage moorings - an attention seeking sprightly walk, playfully fuelling stolen glances, the subtle signs of womanhood!
I recalled draping a borrowed green dhavani hastily on a visit to a distant relative's farm and struggling through the entire journey to keep it fastened. It brought also to memory the special relationships with people who helped me drape it right that day.
மங்கை உன்னை தொட்டவுடன் மறைந்து விட்டாலும் நான் மருபடியும் பிரந்து வந்து மாலை சூடுவேன் 😊
I remembered the first poems I penned sitting in my uncle's backyard after a warm summer rain dressed in my cousin's dhaavani. The attire was borrowed but with it came out a blush I did not know I owned.
And of course the song did reach its last stanza and the time when 'he' had things to say flashed before the mind's eye. Random ethnic wear at a random fest. I must've been 17-18 dressed in my new pink dhaavani fresh out of Deepawali shopping. Decorating the stage was my responsibility and I couldn't get the screen to stay fastened to the wall meant be the backdrop of the stage . He noticed me struggling "not the right clothes to deal with ladder, string and wood sweetheart" I heard him say... my heart skipped a beat as he tugged at the dhaavani playfully. I smiled secretly but quickly retorted with fake irritation "I am perfectly capable of doing this on my own" "I am sure but do come down the ladder for a second" I made my way down, released the dhaavani from his hands and said "what!" He simply smiled and pulled a chair, signalled me to sit and held both my hands and said " You look gorgeous and I can see you better when you are seated, let me do this for you" I blushed... and let him be chivalrous - Ten years later when I officially had to renounce the dhaavani and drape my wedding saree - he went on to be the same man who would marry me and would be allowed to order me around #termsandconditionsapply# and be chivalrous on select occasions. (He tries!)
As I sighed and heaved at the frocks and gowns I had just gift wrapped for my nieces, I wondered if they would ever know the joy of owning an attire that could invoke so many memories and reflect so much of a person. I also wondered if the legacy of the attire is lost in the evolution of wardrobes when almost as if an afterthought attempting a reassurance; one last memory of handing over my first and favourite maroon and cream pattu paavadai dhavani to my 'poetic' daughter came to mind and the picture of her reflecting the same emotions as I did at that wedding responded to my wonder.
Life, I realised is afterall made of "tastes not tasks" and this tasteful attire's memory reminded me of the innocent girlhood I was still capable of despite the overwhelming tasks demanded of my womanhood. I got back to dusting the kitchen shelf as the song continued to play in my head and I tucked the helm of imaginary dhavani to my waist
I tend to play random music on my phone or switch a music channel on when I do mundane tasks and today was no different. I was busy in the very important task of making sure nothing in the household was even remotely dusty -
Windows - Check.
Side table - Check.
Electronic equipments - Check.
Doors & glass flauntees - Check.
Soul and memories - Pending.
Suddenly the music channel dished out a golden number from yesteryears - paavadai dhaavaniyil paartha uruvama. I smiled the second I heard the song. The song and the image of the attire in question brought back so many dusty memories in a nostalgic flood. I had to stop and let the memories do what they came to do.
The paavadai dhaavani is a beautiful attire capable of invoking a lot more than dusty memories. A playful long wavy dhaavani draped around a paavadai (skirt) that is ankle length or flow-y with a matching short blouse; this attire is the ultimate embodiment of overflowing youthful radiance.
"தத்தி தத்தி நடபதர்க்கு சொல்ல வேண்டுமா நீ முத்து முத்தாய் சிரிப்பதர்க்கு பாடம் வேண்டுமா"
As the first interlude of the song played, the memory of my first and absolute favourite maroon & cream dhaavani flashed before my eyes. I could recall the day amma taught me how to drape one and how there were appropriate postures to be followed to pull it off modestly. I remembered that 10×10 room that became my dress rehearsal space whenever I felt like trying on a makeshift dhaavani with my sister's stolen duppattas and draping it around on a skirt. I remembered the one rupee my thatha lovingly placed in my hand and saying "lakshanama irukku"
I remembered walking around Srirangam temple wearing the same dress accompanied by my cousin during our 10th standard mid term vacations and as she cursed her school for having introduced dhaavani as their uniform, I remembered how I secretly envied her opportunity to drape the beauty around her every single day.
I could almost hear the chaos of the Maada Veedhi where another cousin during another vacation took me on a TVS 50 to Meenakshi temple and I insisted on draping a dhaavani for the visit. The tough time he had balancing me as I sat precariously on one side of the superbike 😆... a memory we both won't forget. I eventually slipped and almost fell but managed to land on my feet. "What happened" asked my startled cousin I simply said " I said stop, thought you heard and got off. I have to buy flowers" "Romba mukkiyama ippo?!" He retorted... the lady selling flowers sensed her business op and coaxed him in her chaste Madurai Tamizh "Akka kaekaraanga illa, vaangi kudunga"
இங்கே என் காலமெல்லாம் முடிந்து விட்டாலும் ஓர் இரவினிலே முதுமயை நான் அடைந்து விட்டாலும்...
The song made its way through some more inroads of memory and I recalled a random wedding where I wore a dhaavani and got my first glimpses of male attention and novice poetry. I was happily playing with a bunch of kids - not realising that the dress so easily revealed my first teenage moorings - an attention seeking sprightly walk, playfully fuelling stolen glances, the subtle signs of womanhood!
I recalled draping a borrowed green dhavani hastily on a visit to a distant relative's farm and struggling through the entire journey to keep it fastened. It brought also to memory the special relationships with people who helped me drape it right that day.
மங்கை உன்னை தொட்டவுடன் மறைந்து விட்டாலும் நான் மருபடியும் பிரந்து வந்து மாலை சூடுவேன் 😊
I remembered the first poems I penned sitting in my uncle's backyard after a warm summer rain dressed in my cousin's dhaavani. The attire was borrowed but with it came out a blush I did not know I owned.
And of course the song did reach its last stanza and the time when 'he' had things to say flashed before the mind's eye. Random ethnic wear at a random fest. I must've been 17-18 dressed in my new pink dhaavani fresh out of Deepawali shopping. Decorating the stage was my responsibility and I couldn't get the screen to stay fastened to the wall meant be the backdrop of the stage . He noticed me struggling "not the right clothes to deal with ladder, string and wood sweetheart" I heard him say... my heart skipped a beat as he tugged at the dhaavani playfully. I smiled secretly but quickly retorted with fake irritation "I am perfectly capable of doing this on my own" "I am sure but do come down the ladder for a second" I made my way down, released the dhaavani from his hands and said "what!" He simply smiled and pulled a chair, signalled me to sit and held both my hands and said " You look gorgeous and I can see you better when you are seated, let me do this for you" I blushed... and let him be chivalrous - Ten years later when I officially had to renounce the dhaavani and drape my wedding saree - he went on to be the same man who would marry me and would be allowed to order me around #termsandconditionsapply# and be chivalrous on select occasions. (He tries!)
As I sighed and heaved at the frocks and gowns I had just gift wrapped for my nieces, I wondered if they would ever know the joy of owning an attire that could invoke so many memories and reflect so much of a person. I also wondered if the legacy of the attire is lost in the evolution of wardrobes when almost as if an afterthought attempting a reassurance; one last memory of handing over my first and favourite maroon and cream pattu paavadai dhavani to my 'poetic' daughter came to mind and the picture of her reflecting the same emotions as I did at that wedding responded to my wonder.
Life, I realised is afterall made of "tastes not tasks" and this tasteful attire's memory reminded me of the innocent girlhood I was still capable of despite the overwhelming tasks demanded of my womanhood. I got back to dusting the kitchen shelf as the song continued to play in my head and I tucked the helm of imaginary dhavani to my waist
