saree aunty

Monday, February 14, 2022

banarasis are good for you : the friday saree

years ago, i fell for the guinness tagline that went, guinness is good for you. i suspect i drink guinness more on account of that line than the taste of the heavy dark stout itself.

guinness is good for you was written in the 1920s when Guinness started advertising for the first time. i'd heard once, in the '70s or '80s an enormous amount of money, effort, and time were spent to change that line, come up with something new. . creatives thought and thought, then went away to far off isles to think some more, free float, brainstorm, crack the big idea. and after all that, they came back with... well, guinness is good for you. and so, the line remained.

i can't substantiate that story, but i just found out that james joyce had suggested changing the line with a slogan of his own, "guinness – the free, the flow, the frothy freshener." but thankfully, that was not accepted. it remained, guinness is good for you.

the best ideas are like that. simple, almost minus any adornment, undeniable.

which reminds me of a conversation i had the other day about these beautiul sarees called banarasis; benaroshi, if you're bengali.

banarasis are handloom sarees from the ancient city of varanasi or benares, with their trademark and fabulous zaree work. they are usually in silk, but you do have fine cotton banarasis too.

beautiful as they are, they have posed a persisting problem for their owners and wearers.

which is, where do you wear a banarasi?

the sarees are inextricably linked to weddings and celebrations. the ;et's overdress moments in our world. the endless occasions that weddings present, special anniversaries, ceremonies for mothers to be, your offspring's rice ceremony or whatever is the special ritual for children in a community. banarasis also find a place in religious festivals like diwali, durga pujo, eid. but mainly, it's weddings.

if you want to wear a banarasi, there has to be an occasion. you just can't wear a banarasi otherwise, seems to be the inherited wisdom of saree wearers everywhere.

you dress up in your lovely blue banarasi with big angoor or grape motifs to a cousin's mehendi. your own wedding banarasi you have worn only once after your marriage, to your brother's wedding. at your friend's sangeet, your sweet but careless aunty dropped food on your pale pink banarasi with silver zaree that your mother had worn for her gode bharai ceremony before you were born.

"i have so many beautiful banarasis, but no occasion to wear them," how many times have i heard that? or, "i know the mauve tissue banarasi is gorgeous, but no, i'll buy this kanjeevaram without zaree, more wearable." or even, "oh, banarasis are too much, too jhatak matak, who wears zaree these days," i feel a bit shaken by that.

when i started buying sarees again, banarasis began to demand and get my attention pretty quickly. my mother was born in benaras or kashi, was that some sort of subliminal tug? i've actually always been dazzled by banarasis. my mother had many of them, from her wedding brocade to these really cool ones in solid glimmering shades – emerald, crimson, ivory – with narrow finely worked borders in contrasting shades. i've worn most of them, always for an occasion of course.

but how do you get the banarasi out of the occasion into the everyday world?

that was the question a girl who loved sarees, – whom i'd just met – and i were pondering a couple of sundays ago. she said, she felt one should simply stop needing a big occasion to wear them.

instead, just wear them whenever one felt like it. as you would wear all other nice sarees.

to visit people, for small dinners, when you had people over. treat the banarasi like any other beautiful saree. and wear it. not keep your banarasis in muslin and mothballs forever, waiting longingly for that one mega wedding or whatever, when you can at last let them come out and breathe.

i laughed.

and i heard something in me say, why not?

we'd invited them for shabbat dinner next week. she said, she'd wear one of her banarasis. and she instructed me, practically, to wear the red brocade banarasi i'd mentioned, a replica of my mother's wedding saree.

it felt like a pact. a solemn giving of word to each other which would lead to greater things some day. it definitely felt heady, like a large swig of dark smooth guinness.

after much thought, i chose a blue green shot jongla or jangla (from jungle) banarasi.

when she walked in, we both stopped in our tracks and started smiling, quite incredulous. her husband exclaimed, "you're wearing identical sarees!"

wasn't exactly the same, but hers had an all over jaal or pattern too, with similar motifs, and the colours were close. it was a classic banarasi from her wedding trousseau. mine had been acquired more recently, for our anniversary a couple of years ago.

she had also worn her saree differently, twisting and pleating the yards of silk deftly, as as she pleased. the sheen of a tightly drawn black belt over the pallu and around the waist firmly brought the traditional jangla to the here and this moment.

we spent a happy friday evening together, not being self conscious at all about all the gold and silk. it felt just right. even the men, dressed casually, seemed to like that little high in the air. a refreshing note to a quiet dinner.

i wished i were tall and slender so i could throw my saree about in that carefree swirl. we posed and took shots. banarasis stepped out of weddings and breathed more freely.

a big idea i felt, had been cracked. just wear your banarasi.

i've never read joyce, but a moment ago considered swiping his "the free, the flow, the frothy freshener" tagline.

but no.

i'll go with...

banarasis are good for you.


bought the jangla from tilfi in december, 2020. it was an anniversary gift from my husband. this picture was taken on our anniversary, the first time i wore the saree. thoroughly enjoyed donning a jangla, lifted the covid gloom. we went to a bar afterwards. no big celebration naturally, this is the wild spread of coronavirus time. the photograph is taken by ferolyn, she's our cook and my main consultant on sarees. she's caught the blue green colour play in this one, so am posting here.

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photos credit ferolyn fernandez

Wednesday, February 9, 2022

it was black this friday : the friday saree

how many sarees do you have? what, you're buying more sarees? where will you where them? you've got to stop buying sarees you know...

has anyone told you such things? familiar, these words?

well, i don't blame well meaning friends and harried husband speaking their minds.

but really.

i don't have to wear sarees to love them. or... do i?

how it happened i can't exactly trace but somewhere along the way, the saree got so left out from the idea of dressing up.

i've never not liked or loved sarees, though it never became my daily dress as it was for my mother and grandmothers. yet for occasions, for special anything, i'd wear a saree. in fact, i'd wear a saree to work when i was twenty one, battling crowded buses, pothole filled roads, the heat and dust and grime of calcutta.

and yet, i lost touch with sarees. the need to wear them waned.

about twenty years ago, it all came surging back, happily.

but where would i wear sarees, here in singapore? okay, sometimes to work maybe. and then? wait for occasions? would the twenty new sarees in my cupboard be able to hold their drama till then?

then it struck me.

i have an occasion every week. in my own home.

shabbat.

my husband and daughter are jewish. along with my brother in law, we observe shabbat every friday evening at home. we all get together and have shabbat dinner. good food is made, alcohol imbibed, we chat and relax, bread is broken, wine blessed, prayers and song fill the evening, plates are filled and emptied, the evening flows by.

shabbat, which means seven in hebrew, is a day to be set aside from the rest of the week. it is a sacred day, the day when after creating everything, god rested. wonderful, i thought, as i pondered this. my way of marking this day... i'll wear a saree every friday.

it's perhaps one of the best thoughts i've ever had. i am grinning as i write that.

this friday, february 4, 2022, i wore a fabulously embroidered black silk from bishnupur in west bengal. it's designed by the tremendously talented sharbari dutta. sadly, she passed away suddenly a couple of years ago. she had made this saree for me, as she knows my uncle and aunt and also about my love of sarees. usually, she designed men's clothes only, for she felt not enough had been done in that area in the context of indian fashion.

every motif on that saree is drawn by her. the chain stitch is fine and detailed. the colours are balanced and surprising... that sudden violet. there's a playful note in the execution.

a saree i've worn many times and it has never failed to delight.

the last time i wore this saree,

it was new year in the jewish calendar.

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i had to wear a saree today

my photos credit ferolyn fernandez

Tuesday, February 8, 2022

if it's gleaming like that, it must be a gadwal.

gadwal. when i was too young to know anything about sarees other than all women – yes, it was practically all the women i knew or saw around me – wore them, that word always intrigued me.

spending a lot of time in delhi while growing up, i was aware of garhwal, near the himalaya mountains in the north, a hilly place with lots of nice small towns and warmhearted people... many of whom came to delhi in search of work.

did my mother mean that place when she called her saree a gadwal? were these pretty sarees from there? so why did she pronounce the name in that funny way?

gadwal. with the soft flat d / द sound.

not garhwal. with the rolling d / ढ़ sound which you don't have in the english soundscape at all.

she had a really pretty one, sea green cotton body with a dark purple magenta border, its zaree catching light. i'd hear my aunts and mother's friends talk about someone or the other's beautiful gadwal. the combination was of particular interest, it had to be unusual even unorthodox but not amateurish.

you had to get the colours right.

it was much later that i discovered that the source of these happy discussions was indeed a place called gadwal.

just shy of two hundred kilometres from hyderabad, is the town of gadwal. lying somewhere between two rivers i have only heard of and never seen, tungabhadra and krishna, gadwal is part of the jogulamba gadwal district in telengana now.

oh, to be born by the tungabhadra... krishna flowing on the other side.

i mean, those river names sound so pretty, how can they possibly not have beauty scattered around them. i know i am getting carried away.

ok, back to the prosaic. a few hundred years ago, in the 1700s if my research is right, a kingdom called gadwal samasthanam flourished here, vassal state of the powerful nizams of hyderabad.

the queen, maharani adhi lakshmi devamma, is said to have inspired the craft of gadwal sarees. she had weavers brought in from coastal regions and the "jari chiralu" were devised. "chiralu" is telugu for sarees, "chira" is saree. "jari", i am guessing, refers to zaree or gold and silver coated thread. gadwals used to be called "mathiampeta" once, but in time it acquired the name of the town where the looms brought it into being.

curiously, the queen didn't go for an all silk saree. she could no doubt afford it, if one is to go by the fancy fort and temples built in her time. usually, when royalty is involved with garment, it's all about silk. yet, i murmur to myself, there are exceptions. the dhakai jamdani, but that was in ethereal muslin. the paithani, also originally of cotton body. the kanjeevaram... yes, yes, became synonymous with silk much later.

still, intrigued me this choosing of cotton with silk edges by the queen, at a time of nizams and durbars, as foreign powers vied for influence and courts flaunted their riches. could it be because it was too hot to be wearing silk in that arid deccan land? or was it because this was cotton growing country and great hand spun cotton yarn was readily available? and because it fed the farmer, the yarn maker, the weaver even while pleasing the queen?

from the cotton fields of telengana, images courtesy uploader. a friend tells me, "the loose cotton from plants is called patti (t soft), when it is woven into a cloth, it is simply called kaatan."

gadwals traditionally have pure, fine cotton bodies with rich silk borders and pallu. that is their most distinctive mark. and the curious deep gleam of the zaree, yes that.

i particularly noticed this when i went looking for my gadwals the other day. it was day time but the light was low. i slid open the wardrobe panel and scanned the shelves of cottons, couldn't spot any of my gadwals. a little frantic, i stood on my toes to peer at the shelf above. and there among a stack of cottons, something called out... a steady secure gleam.

i knew even before i went to pull it out what saree it was.

really, how do you do that? i wanted to ask the saree.

it was a white one with purple border and pallu that i'd bought for my mother's sixtieth birthday many years ago. a calming breeze drifted by, everything settled down.

the lustre of subtle, poised zaree catches and stores memory perhaps.

things change, gadwals are made in only silk also nowadays. those two similar looking greenish yellow and green and yellow checked ones are in silk. so is the grey one.

but the contrast border story is still intact. as is a hint of delighting zaree somewhere, even if not on the entire border. the brocaded motifs come from nature and local architecture mostly. specific and intricate weaving techniques are in use. the borders and pallu are woven separately and attached to the body in the "kuttu" tradition. of course, gadwal now has a gi or geographical indication. only gadwals from this terroir (yes, a saree has that) are considered authentic. 1930s they say were good years for gadwal.

i had a lovely encounter with one of my gadwals the other day, and as i write i am beginning to think it's time i looked for a new one... maybe in orange? with an off beat contrast? what say?

more gadwal rambles

a tale of two sarees

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sarees tell stories | cotton gadwals from kolkata, mumbai, hyderabad, bought over the years. yellow and checked silk gadwal silks from abhihaara social enterprise, hyderabad, bought 2020. you can find them on instagram @abhihaara


telengana, the home of gadwal sarees. map courtesy uploader.

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Monday, January 31, 2022

maharanis, construction workers, ics officers – a saree wearer's longish ramble

six yards, five and a half metres, sometimes nine yards, of material. you have to wrap it around yourself. tuck here, tuck there, make the pleats, hold the pallu in place. it must be so difficult. one must sit still or move around in luxury cars or palanquins if one is in a saree.

yet a saree has never demanded that. not really, not ever. in fact, if your palanquin is late, you can simply hitch up your saree a little and jump onto a bus.

if the day is windy and the pallu flies, refusing to stay in place, you could hum a romantic song to yourself, or if not in a frothy mood, grab it none too gently and tuck it into the waist band of the petticoat, and carry on with your life. it won’t mind.

or if you’re at a wedding, your saree stylishly sweeping the floor, your pallu long and glittering with zaree and sequins, and someone drops food on it, after the initial shock and the desire to throttle that someone, you can grab a jug of water from the waiter passing by and clean up, then deftly adjust your saree, so the stain is hidden by a pristine swathe of glimmer.

an image stays in the mind. a row of women in brightly coloured, well-worn sarees balancing muddy platters on their heads piled with cement, sand, and other building materials, walking confidently around a construction site.

across india, women working in construction sites, going about their arduous day in mill printed cotton sarees and other hardy weaves. sometimes with their heads covered, because tradition demands it or perhaps because it guards them against the glare of the sun. really, how do these women manage? i can’t stop marvelling.

the vegetable vendor hawking her fresh greens wears it, the cook grumbling about her low wage wears it, the cleaner, the part time bai, the goddess; city women wear it as do women in villages; movie stars drape it, farm workers wrap it, even school girls tuck it in every morning (had i stayed on in gokhale memorial girls’ school, it would have been uniform class nine onward). the saree is everywhere, and perhaps that’s precisely why one doesn’t take note of it, barely notice it. a bit like oxygen.

my mother graduated from frock to saree when she was thirteen. if you think that means she belonged to a conservative family, not really. saree was a sign of growing up maybe but not always an indication that you’d be house bound and restricted now on. all of her and my aunt’s class cutting from college to watch hindi movies was done in sarees. they took a bus from delhi university to connaught place i am sure… most movie theatres were in that posh part of town, the commercial district of lutyens’ delhi, in the mid to late fifties. and my aunt was very fashionable, so it couldn’t have been sturdy cottons only riding those crowded buses.

a saree is ultimately a length of fabric, which you can twist, turn, tuck, pleat, wear as you’d like to, need to, want to. it’s interactive. it’s flexible. it lets you decide.

and women across different cultures and backgrounds, over time, have done precisely that. there are over a hundred ways of wearing a saree. this has been researched and documented. what’s perhaps not documented is that we, each one of us, have our own little take, our own touches and fixes to get the look we want.  our own way of throwing on a saree.

my paternal grandmother in a white tangail with coloured border, ready to go out, her saree or “kapod,” cloth as they’d call it, well starched and worn in the “shadha sheedhe,” the plain and easy, style. this is called the “aatpoure” drape according to several articles on the net, i may have heard the word, but doesn’t register much. shadha sheedhe does.

my grandmothers and great-aunts wore their sarees in the traditional bengali manner, with broad pleats tucked at the waist, a swirl of cloth about the upper body, over this shoulder and that, leaving only the arms visible. one part of the cloth could be easily pulled up and drawn over the head to cover it, as and when needed. the more modern grandmother switched to the current popular style when she went out.

this style – which is perhaps the most familiar look of the saree nowadays, immediately springing to mind when we hear the word – came about gradually during the bengal renaissance period between the 1860s and the early 1900s. along with new thinking in art, education, politics, society, religion, a change in the way fifty percent of the population dressed. naturally, it didn’t happen in a day, but by and by, slowly yet surely, the new drape gained currency.

the british had a hand in this too. managing india, so they could maximise their gains, led to among other things, the creation of the indian civil service (initially known as the imperial civil service)… the highly prestigious ics. they deigned to allow a few indians into this elite cadre. many of the indian ics officers were bengalis, since the brits ruled for more than hundred and fifty years from calcutta. they belonged to eminent families, qualifying for the ics was considered quite an achievement, a reflection of your education, class, intellect. even netaji subhas chandra bose took the ics exams i just found out. he stood fourth, but didn’t join as he had no wish to serve the colonial government. but what’s all that got to do with the saree?

well, the wives of the ics officers were expected to attend social events and parties along with their husbands. this posed a problem. for before that, women of wealthy, upper class families stayed indoors, they didn’t go out and mingle freely with men. it was the custom in bengal, for women, aristocratic or otherwise, to don their saree in that matter-of-fact way i mentioned earlier, without a blouse. no blouse? the dear queen, had she heard of it, must have been most unamused. thoughts of smelling salt from my georgette heyer reading days swirl in the mind. i am giggling as i imagine the imbroglio… on both sides of the story. our patriarchal men would have been most perturbed by the whole thing, deep discussions on shastra and what is the world coming to must have rumbled across the mansions and rajbaris of the great metropolis of the east. wonder what the women thought. anyway, bottom line, this would simply not do if one had to step out of the purdah, or palanquin, and meet members of the opposite sex.    

and so came along the need for a saree drape that addressed all modesty issues and looked pretty and compatible – perhaps even competed – with the gowns of the european women. the saree found a new look, while a shirt-like blouse, with frills and lace, and a petticoat or underskirt became part of the ensemble.

the new drape was a culmination of ideas and accents from several women. first among them: jnanadanandi devi. rabindranath tagore’s brother satyendranath was the first indian ics officer. his wife, jnanadanandini, was a woman with a say in things if i am to believe film portrayals. when she went to live in bombay with her husband, she was impressed with the “bombay dastur,” or the style in which the chic parsi ladies wore their gorgeous china-made garas with jackets and petticoats. it was a take on the traditional gujarati style of wearing a saree with the pallu, the free end, in front.

eleven of the fifteen women who helped draft india’s constitution. all deeply involved with the indian independence movement, as were thousands of other women… hindu, muslim, sikh, christian, upper caste, lower caste, from across india. intersting to see tat be 1947-48, the new way of wearing the saree is adopted by all, whether you cover your head or not. photo courtesy feminismindia.com

jnanadanandini modified it and drew the saree across the bosom, letting it cover the upper body with pleats at the front, then dropped the pallu over the left shoulder to the back, only to bring it up again under the right shoulder. it left the right hand “free for courtesies” says wiki. this became popular and was known as, if i’m not wrong, the “brahmika saree.” the more progressive and educated brahmo women adopted it initially, wearing tailored blouses and petticoats with their sarees.

in the classic movie “sahib, bibi aur ghulam,” set in late nineteenth century bengal, the beautiful and tragic chhoti bahu (meena kumari) is unforgettable in her shadha sheedhe sarees and glittering jewellery, and the fiery jaba (waheeda rehman), a young brahmo woman who is almost an antithesis to chhoti bahu, wears her saree in the modern style, equally memorable. two completely different worlds and mindsets joined by a piece of cloth.

jnanadanandini devi did not, however, add the swishing array of narrow pleats that drop from the waist to the ground in front, allowing for longer strides and easy mobility. that came later with suniti devi, the maharani of cooch behar. it was this addition that set the saree seriously on the path to its modern silhouette.

that final touch by the daughter of philosopher, reformer, and brahmo leader keshub chandra sen, could it have come originally from an ancient unknown woman lost in history? the sculptures in centuries old temples show unstitched garments with those fishtail-like pleats on queens, apsaras, attendants, everyday women, and of course, goddesses.

the altered drape would not only let women go out and be part of the upper crust social set, but seen as a sign of modernity, it would be adopted by the growing middle class in cities. and some day not too far away, it would adorn many of the women who’d march against british rule in india’s fascinating independence movement.

there’s no tyranny of style here, however. even as the modern drape – often called the nivi style, which has its origin some say, in a style from andhra pradesh – got accepted, the older norms stayed alive. those many ways of wearing your saree. gujarati seedha pallu; bengali aatpoure or shadha sheedhe (plain and simple), as my grandmothers called it; the coorg style with pleats at the back; the looped-between-the-legs nauvari of maharashtra; interesting pleat and pallu arrangements of madurai; the kachhora drape of chhattisgarh tribals; the santhal style; andhra, tamil nadu, kerala, assam, punjab, odissa, rajasthan… there are saree drapes from everywhere, sometimes several of them. a blouse was added on at times, or a petticoat, but it really all depended on the saree wearer’s need, her comfort, her way of life.

the cook in kolkata and the part time maid, had a no-nonsense way of winding the yards tightly around themselves, no flyaway loose ends, no sweeping the floor length. it was the busy working woman’s drape.

a photograph i discovered stashed away with a bunch of pictures at the back of a cupboard in my father’s family home. this is most probably a dear great-aunt of mine. i just remember her in her white widow’s saree, the “thaan.” maybe it’s her, maybe it isn’t… that brooch looks stylish and this drape possibly reflects the tweaks introduced by jnanadanandini devi.

for some reason, mrinmoyee in “samapti” and durga in “pather panchali” come to mind, how everyday sarees were in a girl’s life. not getting in the way of scampering about woods, or running through open meadows covered in kash.

i am no newcomer to the saree, it’s always been there; yet, it was only the other day that it struck me the design of a saree is pretty neat. while it looks elaborate and perhaps even fussy in a world of stitched garments that can be slipped on easily, and have a cut and look that’s static, the saree in fact is fluid and amenable in ways most clothes aren’t.

from the plainest to the most ornate and delicate, there’s a hearty can do spirit in it. it can handle situations, it’s happy to deal with life. floating through the saree’s skein of pliable yarn is an undertow of grit, of determination to tackle the day. and of freedom.

which is why, you’ll notice, every now and then, there’s change. a new twist, a new turn. a new generation finds its own relationship with the saree. my daughter isn’t rolling her eyes because i’ve suggested a saree for her graduation ceremony. she’s chosen a plain yellow one, from assam, handspun eri yarn, handloom. she wants to pair it with a blue blouse. the blouse will definitely not look like one of mine. she’s going to wear the saree most likely tied a little higher, coming down only till the ankles, her pallu not as snugly pulled over the upper body as i wear it, and with her favourite black high heel boots.

we are many moons past jnanadanandini and suniti devi’s sensibilities. the sculptures on our temple walls are perhaps wishing they had today’s beautiful blouses to cover their bare torsos. someone’s adjusting and tucking the pleats of her saree somewhere. a pallu is dropping over the shoulder… mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, great-great-grandmother, great-great-great-. how does a piece of fabric shimmy so blithely through so much time?

i feel a tug. must wear sarees more often, i think. but i am in one, i realise the next instant. it’s friday, and these days, i wear a saree for shabbat, the weekly jewish observance at our home. today, it’s a dressy kanjeevaram silk with zaree.

there’s a yell from the kitchen. i lift the saree up a bit and rush across. blood all over the floor, worried faces, the cook has cut her hand. i pull the pleats up and tuck a bit into the petticoat, the pallu of my expensive but not snooty saree is twisted and goes around my waist. time to get to work.

wrote this on april 29, 2019

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sarees tell stories | brushed orange and maroon kanjeevaram from delhi's nalli, circa 2005; yellow eri from kohua d'handloom cafe, guwahati, 2019.

referred to material from this economic times article, the wiki page on jnanadanadini devi and an article in the statesman on the ics.

waiting for my daughter’s first saree to arrive. this photo and the title shot courtesy anjan barua of kohua d’handloom café.

the saree did arrive and my daughter wore it to her graduation, with a blue blouse, silver jewellery, boots on her feet.

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the state of assam, where the eri yarn was handspun, dyed with natural colours, and woven on the loom.


kanchipuram in tamil nadu where kanjeevaram sarees are woven.

(maps courtesy uploaders.)

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i had to wear a saree today

met a girl who loves sarees yesterday. never quite ready to meet strangers, i was all set not to engage much. a childhood friend of my husband’s had invited us for tea at a posh hotel nearby. they hadn’t seen each other in over forty years. i had a feeling i’d be smiling politely right through the afternoon. for a second i thought, should i wear a saree?

i try to wear one as often as i can. then i thought… nah, sunday afternoon tea… saree… a bit too much. his friend was there with his children. lovely kids, i began to relax. because of covid restrictions, the group couldn’t go beyond five. after about half an hour, the kids were settled at another table with their books and hot chocolate, and the friend’s wife joined us.

spare, tall, attractive, no airs about her young woman. a doctor by training, she had a gentle smile. my husband, his brother, and our host were deep in conversation, remembering endless things. a lot of laughter and anecdotes. i thought, ok, i can handle this, maybe she and i will find something to talk about. the usual kids, job, singapore, new york, calcutta kind of talk traipsed by. and i can’t remember how, but we arrived at sarees. she said, “i love sarees.”

many people say that, but there was something about the way she said it. a note, a pitch, a feel. it was something i instinctively recognised. a barrier crashed, a long swathe of fabric swirled. stranger? the two of us fell into a breathless chat about kanjeevarams, banarasis, old shops in hyderabad selling vintage sarees, mothers and grandmothers, preserving sarees, wedding trousseaus, oh, she had thought she’d wear a saree this afternoon too.

the three men looked slightly stupefied at our widely grinning faces, and that immersed in another world look. came home and thought i must update my saree and look through all my sarees tell stories pieces. write a new one.

this morning got writing. then for no reason at all wore a saree. decked up. got pictures taken, and posted. such a good feeling to meet another lover of sarees.

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sarees tell stories | cotton gadwal bought by a friend in hyderabad about 10 or 12 years ago.