Smita gets Lost

Art: Irene D'Cruz, 75, India

Smita always thought that her mother was an Indian princess.

Her mother had soft skin, curly hair, honey-brown eyes and a graceful nose shaped like a frangipani bud. She also had a helpful heart and abundant energy. And she wore the most elegant sarees.

Smita watched while her mother draped the saree. After pleating the pallu folds, she pinned them and laid them out on the bed. Then she carefully tucked the other end of the saree into her petticoat. The front pleats were done with measured accuracy, pinned, and slipped into the petticoat. Lastly she took the pallu end of the saree, triumphantly tossed it over her shoulder, and pinned it there. Then turning to the mirror, she preened while straightening and smoothing away any awkward folds.

Once every year, she laboriously starched the cotton sarees and aired the precious silks. Every summer the cotton sarees were freshly starched with the water left over from boiled rice. Every spring the silks were put out in the sun to release the musty smells and moisture. On those days their backyard looked quite festive as yards and yards of colourful sarees hung like buntings on the clothes lines. Some older cousins whispered that there were threads of real gold and silver woven into some of these sarees! Some of the sarees were two-toned and displayed different colours in the sun and the shade. The children loved to play hide and seek around them and if their faces brushed against the sarees, it felt like a gentle caress from Smita's mother herself. 

Smita was a shy child and always liked to hide in the folds of the saree her mother wore. She would enclose herself in a little tent she made from the saree pallu to avoid glances and enquiries from strangers when they visited. Every weekend her mother took her to the open market. Once there, her mother would move briskly from stall to stall buying and bargaining. It was difficult for Smita to walk quickly, so she would trail along holding the pallu of her mother’s saree for comfort. 

One day while her mother bargained for fruits, a monkey in the centre of the market caught Smita’s attention. It was a curious fellow and imitated every action of its keeper. It even checked the keeper’s daughter’s hair for lice and slapped her if she turned her head. That amused Smita and she watched with total absorption.


A while later, the keeper’s family said goodbye. So did the monkey by waving its paws. They wrapped up their belongings and left. 

Smita clung to the saree pallu as usual and trailed along. A while later she realised that she had not heard her mother’s voice for a long time. She looked up and saw that at the other end of the saree pallu was a strange plump lady, so unlike her mother. She opened her mouth to howl but no sounds came, so she sobbed bitterly instead. How could she have lost her mum? Has anybody turned her into this strange-looking lady? Or worse – had she been kidnapped? Smita was inconsolable. 

The strange lady looked at Smita clinging to her pallu and asked tenderly, 

“Are you looking for your mother, little girl?” 

Smita looked so grief-stricken that she must have guessed so. Then her questions poured out. 

“What is your name? What is your mother’s name? Where do you stay?” 

Smita did not answer a single question and just looked at all the questioning faces through her cascading tears. 

People asked around, 

“Has anybody lost a little girl?” 

After what seemed like a century, Smita saw her mother’s angelic face in the crowd. 

Suddenly Smita found her voice and she cried loudly and bitterly. Her mother smiled and thanked the lady and pacified the onlookers. Then she bent down, pulled Smita close, kissed her several times, wiped away her tears, offered her a peeled banana, and lovingly explained that she must have let go of her saree pallu  at some point and then grabbed on to the other lady’s pallu. She laughed away the incident and said that such things happen in life and taught Smita to believe in the goodness of strangers. 

Words:

saree – a long rectangular fabric draped by Indian women

pallu - the long suspended end of the saree which is thrown over a shoulder

(An original story by Aashoo dedicated to Irene D'Cruz. Protected by Copyright, 2013. )