SORRY NOT ZARI

All that glitters is not pure zari silk saris anymore. Here is why and how they are vanishing from looms, stores, and your shelves.

- NIDHARSHANA RAJU

CLAD in a dull green Keerthy Savitri in sari, Suresh's Mahanati sits quietly in a taxi. She listens as the driver speaks of his daughter's wedding and his mounting worry of affording it. Upon reaching home, she asks him to wait. Inside, she lifts a worn out purse from beneath her pillow, only to find a few coins clink back. She turns to her once overflowing cupboard with gold, gemstones, and cash, and finds nothing but rows of saris. She selects one -gold zari-laced and lustrous silk sari-slips out the back door, and asks a neighbour to pawn it. Then, she presses a thick bundle of notes into the driver's hands and smiles her kindness wrapped in silk and her downfall traded in silence.

This scene, in the film which earned Keerthy a National Award for Best Actress, lingers long after the credits roll. It lingers for its emotion, but also serves as a quiet reminder that once upon a time a silk sari was wealth itself. Even two decades ago, it could help settle debts or fund a wedding. But today, it's merely fabric that may or may not draw any returns at all, say retailers, weavers, and pawnbrokers alike.

To grasp why, one needs to first understand each thread that is used while weaving a silk sari, says AK Rajan, a weaver who owns a thari (loom) in Kumbakonam. Every thread in a silk sari is not just a single strand, but a union of fine filaments of silk, entwined with threads dipped in gold and silver. These are spun together, layer after layer, to form a single thread. It is from the careful weaving of thousands of such threads that a silk sari comes to life, he explains.