The fabric of families

One of my oldest and favourite saris did not travel with me when I went to Pakistan to attend a friend’s wedding this week. That is not to say there is anything wrong with old ones. In fact, they are prized possessions handed down as heirlooms from mothers to daughters.

However, I was left with little choice but to follow my mother’s strict instructions about what I should wear to the wedding – one that she would not be around to supervise. She may not be on Facebook to witness the slew of photographs, but, being a mother, she can pretty much will me to do anything. And she did.

So I left behind one of my favourites. The gold threads that were used to embroider the edge are a little frayed, but there is a lot of emotion attached to it. Perhaps this is because it was the first sari that my mother ever handed down to me. Although it was not the first sari I ever wore (I always borrowed from aunts, cousins and my mother), this was the first sari I ever owned. It is older than I am, because my mother bought it when she was a medical student. It was one of her first grand purchases.

I am yet to pillage my mother’s collection (although I am working on it). It is nothing compared to my aunt’s – a self-taught fashion maven and collector of saris from every state of India. Indeed, her collection is like visiting a museum. But I digress.

So far, I have inherited a few pieces from my mother, including the dark blue Varanasi silk with intricately embroidered flowers in silver thread that she wore at her wedding reception. Of course, this piece travelled with me. As did two of my newer purchases: a bright yellow silk-and-cotton mix garment with extensive Kantha stitch (from West Bengal), entirely hand stitched, and a bold orange georgette sari (also a Varanasi silk) that weighs a good 2.3kg thanks to the zardozi work, in which delicate copper wires have been woven into trellis and floral patterns throughout the garment.

It occurred to me as I was writing this that I have a particular affinity for saris from Varanasi. Or it could be the subtle influence of my father’s side of the family, who hail from that state. The final one that I packed was a pale green tissue sari by the renowned Varanasi weavers in which they interweave silk in a way that makes it look even more delicate. It is a type popularly worn at weddings. My mother wore it at hers – actually, in one of many ceremonies not unlike the week-long celebrations I was about to embark on.