Karma Read Online Free Page A

pants.
    Everyone stared at her sari. In the beginning she thought they were just jealous. Canadian clothes were lumpy and stiff.

Reena’s Sari Shop in Winnipeg
    The sari is five thousands years old , Mata says, as I crawl under a table of coloured waterfalls spilling to the floor. As old as Sanskrit text.
    Mata’s eyes are closed. Her fingers graze.
    Silks from Banaras, Mysore. Synthetics with pretty names. Georgette. Chiffon. Kanjeevaram saris. The longest and heaviest. Embroidered with real gold.
    Mata can always tell the difference.
    There hasn’t been a woman born that can’t be made beautiful by wearing a sari. It softens our bones.
    According to Mata, the value of a sari lies in how it falls from the body. The drape from the waist. Small hand-gathered folds. The detailed pallu flowing down a woman’s back like a Himalayan river.
    Weight is very important when choosing cloth. The eye, our most unreliable sense, is often seduced by gold threads, or fooled by sheen or variegated threads. But weight is honest. It doesn’t change with the light or one’s mood. How much air can pass through the weave? Is the cloth heavy and dense like the earth or thin, resembling the wind itself?
    From under the table I watch her drape the sari like a veil.
    Maya! Where are you?
    I crawl out from my hiding place.
    Why are saris so long, Mata?
    I’ll tell you when you’re older.

The one
    Bapu leaves me alone.
    I browse between the stacks of fabric.
    Searching with my hands.
    I know it’s there, but I can’t rush over the lesser fabrics. I must touch slowly. Respect the blends and rayons. Starched cotton. Not all can be silk.
    I wander through the garden. My hands caress brocades heavy as canvas. I could do this blind. I know weight like Mata.
    When I finally find it, I stroke gently, afraid it will disintegrate like tissue. I feel the golden birds fly in a delicate filigree. Wings as light as clouds.
    I lift the sari under my face and glance at the mirror.
    â€œTall, short, skinny, fat, rich or poor we fold and wrap.”
    You look like your mother, Bapu says, appearing beside me. On her wedding day.
    The glow of red silk.

Helen of Elsinore
    Helen likes singing Mata’s dressing song:
    Tall, short, skinny, fat, rich or poor we fold and wrap.
    I drape my blue sari over her head and shoulders.
    Helen, I think you look like Mother Mary in the Christmas play.
    Great. A pregnant virgin. I wish I had a sari. Then we could both wear them to school . . . where they would accidentally unravel in front of Michael! And he’d go crazy trying to decide which one of us he desired more!
    I glare at Helen, but she just giggles and mouths S-E-X-Y.
    I’m still trying to forget that moment.
    (Michael helping me stand up. The end of my sari pooling in his hands. Sorry, he whispered.)
    Really? You want to forget Michael Divienne leaning over your body in the middle of the hallway?
    What?
    Focus, Jiva. Focus.
    You focus, Helen. We’re supposed to be doing our project on world religions. You’re the Christian. I’m the weird Sikh.
    Fine. Helen pulls a green sari around her hips like it’s a beach towel. Tell me again what you believe in, Jiva?
    Maya , a voice whispers from the hallway.
    Did you say something? Helen asks.
    Tall, short, skinny, fat rich or poor we fold and wrap.
    My mother’s voice floats through the open bedroom door.
    Hello, Mrs. Singh! How are you?
    I usher Helen past Mata, pushing her into the bathroom . We believe that we have many lives, Helen.
    I lock the door. If we live well, we are rewarded in our next life.
    And if you mess up?
    You’re a cockroach.
    Cool, Helen says, while examining the clumps in her mascara. Reincarnation. Another chance.
    Every one deserves a second chance, don’t you think?

My mother hears only music
    The piano fallboard slams shut.
    What did you say? Mata’s mouth is trembling.
    Nothing, Mata. Please don’t stop