Kem Cho, Sassenach? Ep. 1
by: Bhim Pandya (May 2021)
Maatrubhoomi (Motherland): A Vision on Station Platform Pietermaritzburg, KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa
Space is like a fabric that is made ready for printing. It is the stamping and the adding of colour to the fabric that gives it meaning and purpose. When purpose and meaning are given to space, it transforms into place.
The possibilities are endless when the fabric is blank. One can tie dye it or stamp it in any shape, size, or hue. In this case, it can be dyed with, orange, green and perhaps a spinning wheel at the center so that the essence of the fabric; the cotton and thread are also signified.
Then wait for the sun to do its thing as it hangs. A gush of wind would cause the space to fill with air like a stretched canvas. Occasionally the fabric of the imagined reality, woven using thread borne as a result of the many revolutions of the spinning wheel, would flutter, lengthening and shortening as dictated by the course of the wind but remain in place with an unwavering, prosperous destiny. When the wind would pass, it would remain in the sun. The smell of salt would engulf the ship and dominate their tongues as they peter out of the Indian Ocean. At the same time, locals would wrap yogurt in muslin, pressing all the water out, and then prepare it with sugar and crushed saffron, to make Shrikhand.
Salt on the tip, Sun on the Tongue.
The print would set.
The ink dries…
When touched, one can feel the soft yet rough texture of khadi. The khadi swaddling a newborn infant state with memory of its unadulterated past and the newly stamped and signed identity.
-- (Thought of the Day, Oct 2, 2020)
He
He slows his pace when he nears the textile guild area signified by blue coloured homes and numerous terraces on which the fabrics of various hues and designs dry. He hands the reigns of his horse and a coin to a stable boy.
‘A journey of 4 days with limited rest is sure to make even the strongest of horses to want to rest; feed him well boy.’
With a little stretch of the legs and twist to the left and a twist to the right he walks in. The guild is comprised of weaving machines, staff, tools, smell of dyes and sawdust. On the left, a team making and mixing dyes; at the back in a cordoned chamber, carpenters carve designs on blocks and a guild-keeper steps into help as needed. The noise of all activity taking place: the sanding of wood, the weaving of thread and the pouring of dyes is all too calming which evokes a feeling similar to the one-off sipping a cold glass of lemonade on a hot, humid summer’s day or even night. Plus, the sound of the fluttering drying fabric possess a cadence and harmony that is inexplicable and not existent on any musical scale.
He makes his way into the chamber situated at the back. It is riddled with sawdust, shavings, lathes, sanding paper, buffer and the occasional cacophony of sawing which can stir discomfort to an unaccustomed ear. The act of sawing is brutal for it involves the dismemberment of a whole into numerous parts. In this case, a block a of part of a tree-which is known for giving life and shelter or its rooted strength that sustain it even in the most devastating weather-a block of wood is merely a limb chopped off, divided, manageable, craftable, combustible, printable and that will never live up to its rooted identity.
Division, a small little present, call it a parting gift they poured their well-wishes into before leaving. Sassenachs…
Lucky for him, he is a regular buyer of stamps, which he uses for printing sarees at his shop, back in Surat. A small workshop with 10 staff, nothing too big managed with a business mindset focusing on limited quality production and higher value.
Every three years or so, he travels to countries and continents for new years time and partners with local textile firms to create limited edition printed sarees to cater to the local Gujarati settlers.
At the guild upon a table, within the cordoned chamber, a wooden crate is prepared possessing attributes like that of a gift hamper, covered with white fabric waiting to be sealed with leather for weather proofing.
This time the journey will be long and far, to the land known as “The Golden Circle” situated somewhere near the British Isles. The “Golden Circle” is revered for its grandiose Diwali time celebrations so the blocks must be carved in designs that have never existed. We will need at least 30 blocks. Dye will not be necessary; the local textile producers will be contributing dyes and fabric. All of this would be written in a letter to the guild two months prior along with a brief post-script requesting 2 additional blocks with carvings of a sitar and lotus flower.
‘Glad you have arrived. Your stamps are ready. When you check them, we will seal them for the voyage.’
One of the artisan’s dust off the table and chair with a torn rag on which he sits down to examine the stamps. Taking each one in hand he examines them, setting aside those that need to be attended to because they either have a crack or the carving needs to be more refined. One of the carpenters, pour him a glass of water from an earthenware pot. Nodding his head to acknowledge a non-verbal dhanyawad, he goes back to the task in hand. The ones set aside are tended to and while they make small-talk an attendant brings a tray of tin cups containing Khus juice made using water and concentrate concocted from vetiver grass roots which they drink. His accountant who has now walked in hands a bag of gold and a slip for signing to the Guild-keeper.
‘Good to go. Dhanyawad.’
Off they go. On their way out, the guild-keeper reminds them of the usual open invitation to the guild-terrace dinner social.
Honouring their dinner invitation, they arrive at the guild terrace where they indulge the local delicacy Daal Baati A sitar player is playing the bandish of Raaga Khamaj that is complemented by the beat of teen-taal. The sound of the fluttering textiles is no longer heard.
‘In three days, time, we must leave at the break of dawn to make it to the port. Also, at the first opportunity, head to the canvas makers’ shop down the street and pick up the sails along with the flag and give our swords for mending before riding-off. Who knows what the waters have in stock for us?
‘For sure’, says he accountant.
A cool breeze no longer fluttering anything does nothing to soothe the spiciness of the Daal Baati.
She
‘They are arriving, in a month’s time and you have yet to secure the supply raw materials needed to make cochineal? How slow can you be? Its not like you must run around picking up bugs. We will need at least twenty crates of dyes in the various pinks, blues, and yellows he told us about. How will we look? This is the first time we are doing business with an international company that is well known for its textiles. This is the opportunity to make our mill known in the textile industry. Then Millwood textiles will be so successful and known for a lot of things including being revered as the mill responsible for dyeing the river Soar, pink. We will be ever so busy and known for our top-notch quality of service. We will be known as the “Golden” element that makes Golden Circle Golden. Diwali is in a month’s time. They are most likely crossing the Suez. How will this all fall through? There is marketing. Marketing. We must inform the public. We are in competition with the Gujaratis! Hey, did you get a chance to make the pamphlets? Make sure you pay the press guy what is his name?’
‘Danglars’
‘Yes Danglars, give him a little extra so he does not go around spreading rumor's and giving wrong information or spill the beans to the competition. The last thing I want is someone to be in the know of our plans.’
Her attention is averted as she continues to ramble, for she sees a woman dressed in a Victorian croquet dress making her way into the mill.
‘Is that she over there’, she inquires a woman crushing cochineal. ‘Yes, the one in the office…the one sitting down’ she says.
As she walks towards the office, she sees freshly made fabric looped around elongated pipes. In a few days’ time it would be ready for dyeing.
‘Oh hello, come on in and please close the door. My father told me you would be coming and has set aside a parcel for you.’
She lifts the parcel, shakes it and leaves.
The Marketing Manager walks in. ‘Who was that?’, passing the pamphlet for a final review.
'Never mind, take the extra money for that Danglars kid, and tell him to keep his bloody mouth shut. Oh, and make sure that the pamphlet has lotus flower and a sitar and what happened to the red border? Make sure the colour red rather you know what…vermillion red, to be specific…is present. Oh and…what is the name of the bloke coming with the blocks?'
'I cannot seem to recall. Its on the letter. Oh, wait starts with a B? No Bho?'
'I will check the letter you see to that Danglars kid. Bloody hell, the last time he left all the printed pamphlets at the entrance revealing details to the sale and the competition who just happened to be their slashed prices in half.'
'Sipping a glass of water and after digging into a plum pudding, she rests her head on the table.'
She/He
Three months on the ship are sure to make one tired, especially if the three months involve occasional fights at marina pubs and unsettling weather along the way.
The Quartermaster stands at the edge of the dock looking at a ship making its way toward the Golden port. As it comes nearer the light of dawn unveils a damaged hull. A fabric flutters above the top mast, dyed in orange and green with a wheel at its center. The ship is prepared for anchoring. The canvas is being wrapped up and he at the wheel is gesturing to the accountant to keep an eye on the young apprentice made responsible for porting.
‘Easy on the anchor boy.’
The ship with a little thud makes port.
Taking the crate in hand, he crosses the gangplank and greeting the quartermaster, signs some paperwork and pays him a bag of gold. Fix the hull, maintain the ship, and stock the cannon balls. We had an encounter with some rogues and rogue waves, two suns ago. Send a doctor over to mend my accountants’ arm, he will need it in the coming days.
He notices the building with the pointed tip situated some distance away and reckons it is the one he must go to as described in the letter. Taking his horse, which has been made to cross the gangplank by crew member, he makes his way toward river Soar by the mill with the pointed tip and lotus flower gate, occasionally stopping and chatting with locals to get directions.
With a steady gallop through the town and through the lotus flower gate, makes his way inside handing the reigns of his horse and a gold coin to a girl. ‘Keep an eye on him, girl. He has been on water for three months.’
The layout of the mill is similar to the guild except that there is no chamber for carpenters, just an open space for making dyes and fabrics. The apparatus is similar. Instantly recognizing the manager’s cabin, he walks towards it, knocks and walks in.
She stands up, to greet and he lowers his torso to bow. Now standing upright both freeze as if they are slabs of ice in an ice-cabin meant to keep each other frozen in place, in time.
A warm welcome. Ice and memory are similar in nature for they have the tendency to lose their composition with the workings of time.
Few minutes pass as they stand with eyes padlocked in a tableau, entranced and the key misplaced.
So, the quartermaster told me the name of this town starts with ‘L’, but I cannot say it. Let me try… Lye-ses-ter?
‘Let me put you out of your misery. It is quite easy… take the spelling of Leicester. Still shy and speaking very quietly, she spells it out on a piece of paper, bolding ice. Now to pronounce Leicester, all you must do is drop the ice’ and in saying so she looks at him with a grin almost ready to burst with laughter.
He looks up at her perplexed.
She continues, ‘and when the ice is dropped it falls to the floor and breaks. Hahahahha…did you see what I did there? I just broke the ice.
To Be Continued...(Episode 2 Coming on Thursday, May 27, 2021 at 8:00 PM)