The death of the saree has been pronounced with morbid frequency but those obits seem premature. Stuck in Kolkata’s stop and stop-again traffic on a warm day, the thick denim I’m wearing is latex against my skin. In a starched cotton saree, my mother looks cool in contrast – and the only muffin top she has to worry about is the tasty, crispy bit that caps the breakfast cake at Flurys. 

 

RMCA Basak, our destination, is a shop she has visited on her every trip to Kolkata in the past 30 odd years. Saree shopping across India has a distinctive, locale-specific charm. But the taingails, balucharis, kanthas and dhakais (styles based on regional variations in embroidery and weaving techniques) available in Kolkota can lay reasonable claim to being the best in their genre. And RMCA Basak in turn lays reasonable claim to being the best of its kind – a multi-storied saree shop with different levels and sections dedicated to precise price points. A custom made shopping experience, if you will, for the one size fits all ensemble. 

Saree salesmanship is an unheralded craft, especially as purveyed by the fast-talkers at Basak. The ceaseless drone of our attendant is the equivalent of elevator music at department stores – designed to soothe your indecision and endorse your selection. His pitch is strictly an accompaniment though, while his hands deliver the virtuoso performance. Cottons and silks in every imaginable hue, nine yards at a stretch, flutter and unfurl as we perch on low stools, watching and nodding. 

His eyes pay no mind to his hands - he waits to see if we flinch at a particularly garish hue of red, or linger for longer on a distinctive colour combination. From the precariously balanced pile in front of him, he weeds out the sarees likely to offend based on this swift assessment of our preference. It is a necessary efficiency – even the quickest perusal of the options available in our price range would take several hours. 

An initial selection is made through a series of discreet head nods, while I’m still listening to the story about the lady who bought 100 sarees in five minutes  (told to underscore the prudence of such behavior). The hopefuls are already refolded and stacked alongside, ready for a closer inspection.

 

Deft fingers pluck out the precise fold that unfurls the ‘pallu,’ the elaborate portion that falls over the shoulder.  He drapes the fabric against himself, a pinch to mark the pleats and show off the border, and an arm extended to do the ‘pallu’ justice. We debate and deliberate but his acceptance of our judgment is absolute. No pushy peddler, this. 

When narrowing our round one candidates begins to seem an impossible feat and we’re ready to toss the whole stack aside, he delivers a proselytizing line to bring infidels back into the fold. “Dhoondne se bhagwan mil jata hai, saree mein kya baat hai.” If you seek him, you’ll find god, what’s in a saree.  

We leave with four more than planned.