Saree in cold storage?:

The frock strikes back

by Tissa Devendra

As I watched on TV the pathetic clusters of traumatised villagers from Kebitigollewa and Seruwila, both places where I had worked in my distant youth, I was struck by the clothes worn by the womenfolk so far from towns.

To a woman, they all wore frocks! Not the elegant creations worn by urban misses in shopping malls or on cat walks - but most often, knee-length and shapeless garments of patterned cotton material.

Fifty or so years ago, when I trudged the jungle paths and tank bunds 'on inspection', women in these villages invariably wore "redda-hattay" as they set about their daily chores, "diya-redda" to bathe in the tank and "osariya" to temple.

An endangered species

Pondering this sartorial phenomenon made me realise that, today, sarees qualify for classification as an "endangered species". They are kept in 'cold storage' to be worn on formal occasions as weddings and convocations after which their wearers slip back, with relief, into their usual skirts, 'salwars', denims or ,the older ones, into the long and capacious 'Dubai gavuma' [less politely nicknamed 'laesthi gavuma'].

I remember a [probably apocryphal] story my father related about Anagarika Dharmapala, that resolute Sinhala nationalist who waged an unrelenting 'crusade'[wrong word!] against all symbols of colonialism.

The long flowing skirts and lace blouses with frills and furbelows were the standard costume of Low Country elite, and emulated by the lower classes, as can be seen in the wedding photographs of a century ago.

To the Anagarika this was a disgraceful aping of 16th century Portuguese dress, enthusiastically adopted by our ladies keen to imitate their rulers. Father's colourful story was how the Anagarika compelled his old mother "screaming and kicking" to discard her 'saaya' and wrap round herself the Kandyan 'osariya', upheld as the true garb of Sinhala womanhood.

The reluctant old lady was then brow-beaten into the role of a model and proudly displayed to be emulated by all Sinhala women. The nationalist message came across loud and clear and also catered to the perennial quest for novelty [ that had triggered the enthusiastic dumping of the revealing costume of the Kotte kingdom and its replacement by the voluminous 'saaya'.

This thirst for novelty soon swept the saree into dominating the fashion scene. Its many colours and graceful drape, soon ousted the matronly 'saaya', and made it the favoured costume of the elite, as well as the imitative 'lesser breeds'.

It did not take long or a sop to Kandyan indignation at 'pretenders'? for the rather sedate 'osariya' to be replaced by the more colourful and gracefully draped 'Indian' sarees in low country wardrobes.

The consumer demand thus created had a side-effect that its protagonist, the Anagarika, would not have envisaged or been happy about . This was the commercial invasion of the Pettah by Sindhi and Gujarati merchants from India who had ready access to an infinity of sarees.

The all-too-human desire to visually signal social superiority , in combination with the infinite adaptability of popular Sinhala 'culture' led to a minor flowering of various saree styles such as the now-forgotten Panadura and Moratuwa drape which drew the 'fall' coyly over the back of the head. Their Muslim sisters, who steadfastly wore the saree (unlike the fickle Sinhalese) signalled their Islamic tenets of modesty using the 'fall' to cover all their hair.

An interesting footnote was the artistic validity given to the saree by the famed temple artist M. Sarlis whose paintings of Buddhist themes enliven Viharas built around the 1920s and 1930s and the colourful prints (popularised by W.E. Bastian) that yet hold an honoured place in the living rooms of many old houses His queens, princesses and devas are all draped in modest sarees - never in the revealing garb of ancient India.

Badge of distinction

The saree also served as a badge of social distinction. It was reserved for 'the lady of the house' while the 'ayah' and 'kussiamma' had to wear the 'redda-hattay' appropriate to their humble village origins. However, the castles of social inequality began to crumble by the 1950s.

Rural Handloom Centres [popularly called 'veevin'] absorbed village girls who were no longer servant-fodder. They now became "working girls" who disdained the 'redda-hattay' and dressed in the frocks worn by their peer groups in towns.

The bigger garment factories increased this trend a thousand fold and the villages came to be full of frock wearing factory girls. Not long after, came the exodus to the Middle East which imposed some version of 'Bhai suits', 'Dubai gavum' or 'hijabs' on housemaids.

Village ways and customary clothes, inevitably, succumbed to the onslaught of modernity ['veevin'girls] and economic need [housemaids].'Redda hattay' can now be seen only in the dreary Sinhala teledramas of village lust and mayhem.

I must also refer to the misguided attempts by educational panjandrums of the 1950s to impose the 'lama sariya' as school uniform for Central School girls. What it did was not to introduce a feeling of nationalism but a feeling of inferiority to their uniform frocked peers in town schools.

The 'lama sariya' became a badge of shame and was soon discarded. I now venture, with some trepidation, to suggest that the Sinhala Buddhist peasant never did have a tradition bound or religiously ordained "national costume".

They just wore whatever was convenient , available, appropriate - and whatever their peer-group elsewhere wore, whether it was 'redda-hattay', saree or frock Nor does Buddhist doctrine or tradition impose sanctity on a particular style or costume for lay people This meant that you could worship in the 'pansala' whatever you wore, provided it was modest.

Even the wearing of white to temple is a fairly recent (Anagarika) phenomenon. George Keyt's fine early work "Worshippers at the Dalada Maligawa" shows the women in coloured sarees.

Increasing literacy , growing political awareness and the erasure of visible social inequalities, all meant the demise of the 'redda-hattay' and the triumph of the frock.

As for the once saree-wearing "social betters" - they have fallen before the juggernaut of globalised media , consigned their sarees into cold storage and, together with their Asian sisters, have gleefully adopted the fanciful vagaries of trend-setters from the West.

The triumph of the saree lasted barely a century. Today Sri Lanka's streets and jungle trails abound with an infinite variety of frocks - school uniforms, 'Dubai gavums', minis, tailored, flared, flounced ,hip-hugging, saucily split and many, many more styles.

The frock has struck back, and with a vengeance !