My childhood recollections of Kolkata are wrapped up in memories of the saris that my mother, various aunts, and grandmothers wore every day. When we left Kolkata for Delhi, my mother was the only link I had to the world of the Bengal taant (handloom). On our holidays, Ma would take me to her favourite stores to stock up on Bengal handloom saris and the biggest stack in her wardrobe would be of the Dhaniakhali.
&ldquoEktu durey kata gulo dekhan (could you show the saris with stripes),&rdquo she would ask the guy behind the plywood counter, and he would dutifully take them out - elegant saris with fine woven stripes with a stiff paar (borders) and geometric patterns. The word "durey" (stripe) was thus imprinted in my mind. When I returned to Kolkata many years later, my Durga Pujo shopping would always include a couple of durey kata Dhaniakhalis. The shopkeepers would try to push the Tangails (which were ethereal), but I would always gravitate towards the smaller shelves stacked with Dhaniakhalis. Some of these saris still remain, wrapped in cotton bags in Ma's almari. Others have been misplaced, or lost. The saris are a part of a time in our lives that has long gone, of stories intrinsically woven into the threads of memories. Of summer holidays in Kolkata, my grandmother in a Dhaniakhali supervising the daily tea ritual at 4pm, the mellow sun&rsquos rays casting dappled light on tea cosies, and plates of ledikeni (a Bengali sweet), ginger biscuits, and Himsagar mangoes.
I have visited this city over the years to check on family, and more recently, settled here to look after my folks. Over the past few years, our Pujo shopping has been bereft of Dhaniakhalis. A good Dhaniakhali is hard to find. &ldquoI bought my last one four to five years back. It was a lucky find&mdashmost saris available in the market are gaudy and overdone,&rdquo noted art historian, author, and critic Ella Datta tells me when I ask her about the low visibility. &ldquoThere used to be so many varieties of Dhaniakhali stripes to choose from&mdashdal-khichuri (multicoloured fine stripes), payera chokho (a black stripe in the middle, with two red stripes on both sides), alta paati (wide, red stripe).&rdquo Datta rues that along with the sari, such &ldquodescriptive, beautiful words&rdquo may also disappear.
Despite its waning popularity, the Dhaniakhali sari, which received a Geographical Indicator (GI) tag in 2011, has a staunch fan following. Even the Chief Minister Mamata Banerjee favours the weave (she prefers, and is often photographed in, a simple white Dhaniakhali with thin borders).
My quest continued for the perfect Dhaniakhali on a walk along the Rashbehari-Gariahat area which has some of the best Bengal sari showrooms. At the Dakshina Kali sari showroom near Triangular Park on Rashbehari Avenue, I met Sanjay Shah, whose father started the sari shop in the 1960s. &ldquoYou don&rsquot get the same quality dyes or threads any more," he said, explaining why the quality had gone down. "Neither will you get the 100-by-100 thread count either forget the 120 count that the earlier saris were woven in."
I point to a sari displayed in their window showcase - it has the typical fish stripe motif, yet looks and feels very different. It is made on a power loom&mdasha &lsquosoft Dhaniakhali&rsquo which his customers like. Plus it is cheaper than the handwoven ones.
"I know what you are looking for&mdashthose saris had intricately worked borders, each layer in red, black and white combinations. Some years back, I could have shown you that quality. Even the paar (border) had a rich variety&mdashmatha paar, rokom paar. But the weavers who could make those saris are gone. Today, even if we ask for a khorkey durey (a particularly fine-striped sari), they will not be able to make it. Shilpi kothaye (where are the craftspersons)&rdquo