It might sound strange to my American friends, but among the things I miss most about my life in India is my daily Indian attire: the saree, six yards of seamless fabric.
For much of my working life, spent in the metropolitan cities of Delhi and Mumbai, I draped a saree every weekday morning. This garment defined me. Its flowing contours characterized my personality, the choice of color spoke to my mood and the fabric changed with the passing seasons. Each Springtime Holi festival signaled the time to bring out starched cottons and delicate chiffons. Each Diwali, with winter at the threshold, it was time to bring out precious silks from carefully lined metal trunks.
One cannot argue with the modernity or freedom or convenience of Western attire, but most Indian women of my generation (and even more of my mother’s generation) still have a deep affinity with the saree. It continues to be worn, in different ways across the different regions of our country, and it magically adapts itself to each lifestyle.
The saree was also intrinsic to my mother’s persona. All my adult life I borrowed her sarees and frequently wore them with my mismatched blouses! Mom had morning sarees and evening sarees and dressing-up sarees; she even had soft nighttime sarees. Even today, her precious sarees carry her fragrance as they hang in my closet, to be worn during visits to India or Indian celebrations or when I am overcome by homesickness and nostalgia…
