From the saree archives

Might as well make it three vintage sarees in a row. A much worn and much loved Kasavu belonging to the maman and all mine now.

This one is old, again in the vicinity of 45 years. It was given to her by Kunjumol aunty, an older lady who took her and dad under her wing when they were a wide eyed young couple in a foreign land. She saw them through their first home and firstborn even as they navigated life. In fact, she was responsible for my name.

In monetary terms, the saree is not worth anything at all and the years have also marked their time. But, it is priceless for me as it nudges tactile memories. A treasury that spills wide open with its secrets about how some moments smelled or tasted. It rustles with the sounds of their wearing, the loves and hates of the people in its tableau. If sarees could speak, what would they unravel? Surreptitious tears and guilty pleasures or maybe stoic strength and fleeting happiness. Eventually, they too will crumble into nothingness.

My mother is not on Instagram and besides the odd pictures and jokes on the family whatsapp group, we rarely text. I sent her a copy of my post and she was touched that I had stored her memories. We then went on to speak for nearly an hour and one of the last things she mentioned was her childhood dream of owning a whole hoard of sarees. That dream came to pass and she had her fill of the enchanted yards. Maybe someday I’ll tease out all the stories hidden in the warp and weft of her life.

I didn’t plan to get into nostalgia mode but it sort of finds me every now and then. Thank you for wandering with me and my mother’s memories.

This saree is older than I am and has also nestled me as I nestled in my mother’s womb…