The sari, according to me, is the most sexy thing to wear. Even if you don’t wear it often, make sure to steal the show when you wear it. I prefer cotton, khesh, kalamkari and stripes. In terms of colours, I always go for red, black and white.... Choose a sari with a lot of care because a sari reflects your personality. Wearing the right accessories is very important.
At 18, my sari collection shot up from 0 to 2. One was a birthday present from the family, the other was a school farewell present from myself. The saris were worn one time each and soon forgotten.
Last year, they were unearthed. The teal satin had navy patches. The ivory crepe silk looked like an off-white-yellow ombre. Oh well.
So much has happened in the last 16 years. For starters, I now know how to wear a sari. I no longer need six safety pins, one for each metre. I think I have better taste in blouses; I definitely accessorise it better and now I can even nap in a sari! But the most important thing: I have learnt to love and respect it.
The collection as it stands today all started with an enticing Monapali window back in 2004. I walked in, and moments later came out with the first of what would come to be known as the trousseau saris.
For non-trousseau purposes, hand-printed Bengal cottons were bought. I started wearing them to work. (Anything to be treated as a ‘serious’ intern.) I remember borrowing the mother’s black Maharashtrian cotton sari, ditching my ripped jeans, for an event to felicitate Sabyasachi Mukherjee. It was a cheap shot at getting his attention. I wanted his phone number. He noticed the sari. I fed my number on his phone as ‘urgent’ since he was so notorious about not picking up his phone. I hoped he would respond when his phone flashes ‘urgent calling’!
This (a Gaurang creation) is a half sari. Half saris make you look younger. They bring out your girlie side. I experiment… from traditional weaves to chiffon. I have a lot south Indian weaves as well those light, chiffon saris which are easier to carry.
Sabyasachi’s Save the Sari campaign was on, full swing. He was trying to bring Indian women back to the sari. I was the enthusiastic newbie and my trousseau cupboard became the benefactor. From him, I learnt everything — from how to recognise weaves, feel fabric and textiles, the art of preservation of Dadi’s heirloom saris…. But the biggest lesson was how to be proud (and not feel like an auntie) in a sari. With his help, I quickly found my signature style — three-quarter blouses that covered my terrible triceps, big bindi, smokey eyes and Dadu’s big watch. A collection of antique jhumkas was also growing simultaneously.
And after I had mastered this look, I shook things up every once in a while. Saris started travelling with me on every trip. A French lace sari helped me stand out in Florence at a dinner in honour of design biggies Proenza Schouler. A Kallol Datta mating snail sari got me photographed on arrival at Lakme Fashion Week. For my brother’s reception I wore a sexy Gaurav Gupta sari. In a sea of traditional and embroidered saris, my cobalt blue Grecian-inspired, embellish-free drape could be spotted from a mile.
Every sari has its own soul and which sari I choose, goes a long way in deciding who I want to be that night — or day. Some saris are designated pick-me-ups, others are tried-and-tested, one-time-perfect-pleats (great for getting ready at crunch time) and then those sure shot slimmers (hello, black georgettes).
In a span of 10 years, my trousseau sari collection was the real deal. I travelled extensively for work, always bringing back saris for the cupboard. Maheswaris, Benarasis, silks from Hyderabad, Bangalore and Chennai along with ikats, gadhwals and temple borders. Shaded chiffons from Jodhpur, the satrangi (seven-coloured) bandhej from Jaipur, a gorgeous mix from the carefully curated collection at CIMA’s annual Art in Life and then there are those precious saris I have inherited.
Whenever I travel, I try to pick up saris made by our weavers. I try to wear saris to red carpets. There is something very interestingly Indian about it.... Saris look beautiful on Vidya Balan. She has inspired people to go back and buy those pattu saris.
All of my saris have a story — many my own, and some, my mother’s and both my grandmothers’.
When I got engaged last year, my Nani finally parted with her special stash. Those beauties. Some of her saris are a bit too ‘grown up’ for me but now I know better than to refuse.
The trousseau saris embarked on their journey last year when I got married and moved to the US. I couldn’t bring all. I probably won’t bring all. At the moment, I have a mix of saris, some traditional weaves and simpler chiffons and I am forever grabbing even half the opportunity to take them for an outing.
My wedding weekend across the Atlantic was a sari fest. In peak winter, I shivered in a yellow taant at the gaaye halud. My dear friend sent it because I was marrying a Bengali. My in-laws gave me a mustard-and-red Kanjeevaram for the reception dinner and dressed me up in a classic red Dhakai for the bou bhaat. I felt so beautiful in each of these.
But in my 100+ collection of saris, I have a clear winner. It’s a rani pink south silk that I wore for my wedding ceremony. My father had got it for me when I was 10 years old. After he passed away, I thought the best way to have him give me away would be in that sari. I was a non-conformist, blow-dried, smokey-eye bride. I didn’t cover my head with a veil. But I had that sari. And it was all that I needed.
Shradha Agarwal
My first recallable memory of the sari on screen is Sridevi in Mr. India. Until then, I had only heard of Miss India and I was sure I had read the movie’s title wrong because who could look better than Sridevi in a blue sari falling over a haystack (a real haystack, not Anil Kapoor’s hairy hemisphere) as she sang I love you… Pretty sure she meant her sari.
— Karo Christine Kumar
I get appreciative glances and comments when I am in a sari. And I always manage to get it right — bindi, silver jewellery, Mac Ruby Woo red lips, black kajal. Instagram click... and so many likes! When I felt confident enough about my sari-donning skills, I decided to wear a lovely white and gold sari all by myself on Ashtami. A puja day means a lot of squatting, bending, stooping and running around, and what else could happen but my sari coming loose just when I stood up! There was I, a live wardrobe malfunction, at my grandmother’s place.
Number of lessons learnt? Two. First, blood is thicker than water: there were only ladies around me and none laughed, something I would’ve totally done. Second, pin your sari at strategic points. Always.
— Riddhima Khanna
You’re the 20-something who stands there awkwardly, arms akimbo as expert hands tuck, pleat and drape six yards of cloth around you. You try to argue the benefits of wearing a churidar instead of a petticoat but the expert (the mother) refuses to listen. She does, however, agree to the shaamne-aanchol look, because she knows you’ll fall flat on your nose if the pallu lies loose over your shoulder. The end result is rather spectacular, you think. You promise to wear a sari to work, but by the end of the evening the beautiful gold border has ripped after getting caught on your stilettos multiple times and you’ve thrown elegance to the winds by hitching the darned thing up to your knee. But one day you’ll be bundled off to Burdwan, for a far-flung wedding, and be left to your own devices. You’ll make a valiant effort and be rather pleased with your efforts. All will be well until curious, elderly women begin to ask you why your aanchol is over your right shoulder instead of your left. You’ll freeze for a moment. Then you’ll insist that ulta pallu is all the rage these days. And, perhaps, you’ll start a new trend in Burdwan....
— Ramona Sen
When I was little, I used to play “teacher-teacher” wearing my mom’s sari. But the credit for making me feel comfortable in a sari goes to my dance classes and shows. Dancing in a sari and changing from one sari to another in a jiffy has made me a sari expert.
— Malancha Dasgupta
When I was in the fifth standard, I wore a sari for a Rabindra Jayanti programme in school. And if performing in front of the school wasn’t nerve-wracking enough, I also had to look like a lady. My mother draped me in one of her favourite saris and pinned the pallu to my blouse. But even before my performance, the pallu got stuck to a nail and got torn in multiple places. I also remember tripping continuously. Years later, when I wore a sari to school again, on Saraswati Puja, I realised just how sophisticated it made me look. I’m still not that good at handling a sari, but damn, it makes me feel beautiful!
— Deborima Ganguly
Saraswati Puja in school is when I, like most girls, tried out the sari for the first time. With wedding bells, I graduated from my mom and grandmom’s collection of anything-will-do to falling in love with the white-and-gold Mundu (traditional Kerala sari) I got married in. I eased into my trousseau and started enjoying the traditional Kanjeevarams and silks as much as they started to own me. I could even get the pleats and pallu right. Yet, in daily life, I find myself slipping into my jeans to run around. Because I don’t want to be the only one clutching the pallu while clambering up the stairs. The last thing I want to be is clumsy in a sari and alone.
Practice could be the only way to perfection but for practice too I need company. And for the lack of companionship my sari wearing days are ceremonial moments restricted to special occasions and festivities. The errant factor: Not the sari, it’s me.
— Mohua Das
Do you have a sari story to share? Tell t2@abp.in
