It started when a mother opened out the contents of her cupboard. In it were piles of silk sarees, folded neatly, each with the smell of sandalwood and time. There was the crimson Mysore crepe silk saree, which she wore at her wedding; the green one from the first festival as a bride; and the pale ivory one, which had seen many laughs and tears.
Her daughter, at sixteen and very curious, ran her hands over the zari edges, eyes wide with wonder. “Maa,” she asked, “will I ever wear one of these? ”
Her mother smiled. “Not just wear them,” she said gently. “You’ll make them your own stories.”
The First Drape
Her story began on the morning of her school farewell. The sunlight slipped softly through the window as her mother helped her drape her very first saree, a light pink satin saree that glimmered gently with every fold. In the mirror stood a girl who looked both nervous and quietly proud. Pins lay scattered across the table, the air filled with laughter, and then came a silent pause when her mother’s eyes welled up with pride.
At school, she found her friends, each wearing their mother’s saree, every colour carrying its own story. And when she finally stepped up to collect her degree, there was something different about her. The saree hadn’t just changed how she looked; it had changed how she felt a little.
The College Ethnic Day
A few years on, at the time of her college’s ethnic festival, that is when she put on that saree, which was of deep maroon silk, a piece which had been passed down from her grandmother. The campus was a hive at that time, filled with music, laughter, and the energy of youth. Boys trying out the dhoti for the first time, girls playing with their pleats, and all the while the click of the phones. In the middle of it, with the fun going on, she felt that familiar rush, a sense of pride and belonging. That day, at that moment, she got what her mother had meant. That saree did not just set off her beauty; it made her feel like home.
The Wedding Saree
Years went by, and the same cupboard was used again. It was her wedding day. Her mother put in her hands a red and gold silk saree wrapped in tissue paper. “This is what I wore at my wedding,” she said in a soft voice. “Now it’s yours.”
The bride looked at her reflection, which was a mix of nerves, joy, and love. In the house, which was full of chatter and ritual. When she entered the mandap flanked by family and friends, she felt a quiet comfort. The saree felt heavy indeed, but not in the weight of fabric, in memory. It had held many loves before her, and now it was a part of her story also. That saree became more than what she wore that day.
The Saree and the Stage
Time moved on gently. She was no longer the new bride but a woman who was confident in her work, in her life, and in her choices. She was invited to receive an award, and for this, she selected a turquoise brocade crepe silk saree. It was not just about tradition; it was about feeling like herself. While standing on the stage with the bright lights, she was reminded of her very first saree, the pink one she wore on her farewell day. She felt calm with the assurance that had replaced the nervousness.
Over the past years, the silk sarees had been by her side at all festivals. At Diwali, it sparkled by the side of the diyas. During Durga Puja, it was a part of the rhythm of the dhak. On Pongal mornings, it bore in it the smell of ghee and sugarcane. Each celebration left a mark, a faint mark of haldi, a loose thread, a memory which folded into its folds. Years later, when she opened her cupboard, there they were, her sarees. Folded neatly, holding decades of life within them.
The pink one from her farewell.
The maroon one from college.
The red one from her wedding.
The turquoise one from her award night.
And others from countless festivals and moments.
Her daughter ran her fingers along the fabric, eyes lighting up.
“Maa,” she said softly, “these look like stories.”
Her mother smiled, just as her own had, years ago.
“They’re my stories, woven in silk.”
At Turaja, we celebrate not just sarees but the women who live through them. Every Mysore crepe silk we create carries the softness of tradition, the ease of artistry, and the promise of memory, waiting to be reaped and cherished.
Because fashion may change, but stories never do.
And a silk saree will always be a woman’s most beautiful story.
www.turaja.com – Where Every Silk Saree Tells a Story