I rock a Dhoti

 In Kanchipuram I bought a dhoti.  It’s like a lungi, except nicer. I really am not clear on the difference. Each one is three meters of cloth that men wear in a skirt-like fashion. Craig and I shopped for them together, and he and I each bought one that was labeled a “dhoti” and then Craig picked another one labeled a “lungi.” The lungi they offered to stitch together so that it created a tube, while the shop owners said that the dhotis where not to be stitched. You wear both items by wrapping them around your waist and rolling them down to keep them in place. I have noticed a lot of men wearing them with khaki shorts underneath which, I think I mentioned previously, seems to defeat the advantages of wearing a skirt in the first place—air flow and unrestricted range of motion. On the other hand I have also witnessed a drunk who, and I think I mentioned this previously as well, was not wearing anything under his dhoti and did some major public readjusting. Ow, my eyes. Anyway, it’s definitely a South Indian thing. I am not sure if I ever saw one in Delhi, but down here they are ubiquitous on men from laborers to priests (well, Brahmin priests, I don’t think I saw any paired with a clerical collar). When he saw me come back to the room in Kanchipuram with a Dhoti, Robert G. (not to be confused with Robert B.) had to go buy one too. Then we took the night train to Madurai.

In Madurai, Lady Doak College, a small women’s college affiliated with the University of Madurai, is hosting our visit. Tonight they planned a world cultures showcase and dinner for us and a group of students from Japan, Korea, and China who are there for the month. They asked us to contribute a performance to for the evening’s festivities, and with so little advance notice we found ourselves sadly short of ideas.  We finally decided, by default rather than real agreement, to perform the “Cotton Eye Joe” and teach it to our hosts. I told them I don’t dance. They said, “Of course you can, it’s easy,” and I pointed out that better dance teachers have said the same thing to me and given up. I pointed out that I actually had to drop country western dancing in college. Nobody was listening. Oh well.

Aditi suggested that we wear our new Indian clothes to the cultural night, so I wrapped myself in my lovely orange dhoti, and put on my new blue-striped jibba. I think that’s what it’s called, or kurta in the the north. In America we say shirt. Craig claimed he couldn’t get his dhoti to work and refused my help (it’s not like I got it on the first try), and said that his new shirt didn’t fit right. Robert denied that he had heard about wearing the lungi or dhoti that night. Maybe, but that’s awfully convenient. In any event, the final result was that, of the seventeen of us, only I was wearing a traditional Indian man-skirt. Thanks for the solidarity, guys.

We arrived at the auditorium on the Lady Doak campus—a lovely open-air building as so much of the campus is—and took our seats in plastic chairs on the floor. We faced a big stage, and above us, on both sides, were rows and rows of Tamil undergraduate girls, looking down at us and cheering like we had just entered Thunderdome. As the program began, bats fluttered in and out of the auditorium, hunting the mosquitoes and other flying buggies that filled the air. The first performance was a traditional Tamil dance by Lady Doak students—elegant and impressive. Next they performed a set of story-dances in more contemporary style, with girls made up as deer and other wild animals executing graceful, fluid movements that evoked the spirit of the animals they represented. In another dance, half the girls wore traditional saris while the other half, in jeans and shirts, played the parts of men as they danced a battle of the sexes with women triumphing and then winning the men over to their side. It could have been overly precious and silly, but it was absolutely charming. Then the invitation came for Richland College of Texas to perform. I tried suggesting that, as a Hurst-Euless-Bedford teacher, I was expressly not invited, but no one was buying it. Furthermore, no one wanted to introduce our performance. I volunteered to speak the introduction if I didn’t have to dance. No dice, but now I was on the hook for the introduction. Not that that mattered, I took the mic and had just begun to speak when my fellow travelers stepped into the center of the auditorium and the stands went wild. Nobody heard what I said anyway.

During the dance itself, Kerry counted out loud for me, and while I was often on the wrong foot or behind a step or two, I never completely lost it. More importantly, I never lost the dhoti. Remember, I was wearing three meters of hand-woven cotton fabric around my waist, held in place by overlapping and rolling. Of course I had on my shorts underneath. It wasn’t super comfy that way, but I didn’t want to risk traumatizing myself or the crowd of undergraduate girls in the event of a wardrobe malfunction. The dhoti stayed on, and I don’t think I was even the worst dancer in our group. The girls were all loudly and enthusiastically appreciative anyway. Probably we were good comedy, rather than a fascinating look at American folk dance, but they were happy and that’s all that counts. The college president told me later that they had especially enjoyed watching me dance in my dhoti.

The Korean students followed us, and they must have been greatly relieved by our performance. They drummed on plastic bowls and danced to Korean pop music, and they had clearly spent some time practicing. The Japanese students performed a pop song in traditional summer dress, and the Chinese students gamely taught phrases in Mandarin and sang a pop song. The three East Asian groups really blew us off the stage unless you’re looking for pure slapstick. They said they hadn’t practiced much, but I don’t believe them. We had in fact practiced once after a few Kingfishers on the hotel rooftop, so there. Finally, the Filipino college gym teacher sang three lovely songs, accompanying herself on the guitar, and then it was over and we could eat.

When we returned to the hotel, my dhoti was still in place. I never had to adjust it once, and furthermore it makes a great sweat-rag and hand-drying towel. I’m never wearing pants again.