5. Washing off the Dust

I returned several times to this place, to better recognise the faces behind the layers of dust, and the stories they tell - how the slum dwellers attempt to survive as rickshaw divers and rag dealers. Definitely not many foreigners find their way here, and if they do, they will not buy second-hand saris; in any case, the dealers would first pass on the usable ones among their kin. Their best buyers would be the innumerable bicycle mechanics in this city.
    I intended to buy some saris from one of the women. Within no time her five children appeared and helped me pick them out. Ten rupees a sari, that is what she asked for. Meanwhile, a group of curious men from the roadside had gathered around me. As soon as I had decided on my twenty saris, her husband showed up and requested a doubling of the price. I tried to make it clear to him that I had negotiated with his wife, and that he should not interfere with this business. Finally, we agreed on three hundred rupees, and he gave his wife a sign to wrap the saris into a bundle. He put out his hand, waiting to receive my payment. Again, I tried to explain to him that I had an agreement with his wife and hence would hand over the money to her. Reluctantly he gave her another sign, indicating that she may take the money. She folded her hands around the notes, lifted them to her forehead, and made them vanish, as if by a magic trick, into her bra.

She smiled at me and I hoped she could keep it, hoped it would not end up in liquor. The first time I had visited the slum, I had come across a few very drunk men, and the atmosphere around them had been tense, which had made me leave without saris.
    During the dealings, a group of rickshaw drivers had put themselves in position behind me. They all new that I would not have a choice but to leave the place with my huge sari bundle in a rickshaw. Since I had to choose one of them, they would all make it difficult for me, waiting to show their disapproval on their faces.
    Back in my workshop I started washing the saris, freeing them from the layers of grey dust. In the process, most of them revealed their strong colours. Simple, torn clothes, devoid of decorations, stained with the traces of life, with burn-holes and sat-through patches, patched-up sewing. They would form the raw material for my further objects, telling – with their colour shades, knots and thickenings – a different set of stories of women living in a different world.