Clothes for Communism

{Guess Who Finally Gots Herself a Sari}



So last night whilst innocently getting a bite at the neighborhood dhaba (where they call out, not inaccurately, LILYMADAM! LILYMADAM! YOU EAT! YOU EAT! every time I cruise by on my bike) I got caught up in a mildly terrifying street rally for the local political party.



Take the motorcycle gangs from Mad Max, make them communist Muslim males, arm them with Indian flags, firecrackers and rallying cries, set a thousand of them loose on the single-lane streets of Kochi, and that's pretty much how it went down. It was cool at first, the way communism seems cool when you're in high school and all about Che, but then it got a little skurry. Needless to say, homegirl here took to the back alleys and pedaled home as fast as her rusted little spokes could carry her.



Obviously, the only way to celebrate such a rite of passage is to go out the next day and purchase a sumptuous hand-woven silk sari. That's right; I finally gots myself a sari. It's eight meters of Navajo turquoise, sweet corn gold and Payne's grey handloom awesomeness, and I can't wait to get it tailored. The traditional geometric designs kill me, and the suppleness (yes, suppleness. deal with it.) of the silk can make a textile nerdle weak in the knees. Subtle it is not, but subtlety (as well as political correctness and self-control at the cheese platter) has never been the strong suit of a Stockman.



And so. You guys finally got me to break down and get a nice sari. You and the commies, that is.



P.S. If you came over here via the goat thing, welcome. There will be more goats. Promise.