The Red Cloth

When you see this picture, you probably notice the saris. And the height difference. Maybe the poofy hair.

What I see first is our hands intertwined. I remember as we took that picture the feeling of my host mom’s hand clutching my arm, and my hand reaching for her, intertwining us as if we could stay that way forever.

I’ve been thinking about gifts lately as we approach the holidays. In Nepali culture, when a daughter leaves her home (almost always because she’s getting married), her mother gives her a red sari. While women may eventually acquire more than one sari, this sari is of particular value. It is the only piece of property that is considered the woman’s when she’s married. The small monetary value can offer a small safety net to the woman. It is often passed down from generations of women.

I don’t know if you can see the love in her face, but I can.

My mom, Sita Aama, would often tell me about her mother and grandmother as we sat on the mud floor and made sweet rolls over the fire. She would teach me her native language, Gurung, and I would teach a little English. She even let me make tea for the shop patrons (under her very watchful eye).

I liked her from the moment I met her, but at some point, I started loving her. I don’t know when. I can’t even speculate, but I suspect it’s mutual. Despite all of the trials in her life, she loves with her whole heart.

You can see in the first photo one of my mom’s red saris. When she married at the age of twelve, she was given three. Now she has two. She gave me one when I left our home.

My sari is faded from the sun. There are holes where rats chewed through it. The bottom is frayed where it dragged along the floor. I suspect it will always smell faintly of buffalo manure and curry. It is one of the most meaningful gifts I have ever received.