If I'd memorised saree names like my sis, I'd be a judge

Time of India

11-05-2025

My relationship with sarees is passionate… but like all passionate things, slightly chaotic.
I adore them. I admire their weaves, their weight, their sweep as I walk past a mirror. But ask me what kind of saree I'm wearing, and I usually look blank.
'Wow! Beautiful saree… what's it called?' a colleague once asked, eyeing the leafy green one I had on.
'Um… cotton?' I ventured, with the confidence of a student bluffing through an exam.
My sister, who was on a video call later that day, nearly choked on her tea.
'That's a Mangalgiri, you silly noodle!' she exclaimed.
Ah yes. Of course. Mangalgiri. A name I instantly forgot again five minutes later.
You see, my sister is a walking, talking loomopedia. She can identify an Uppada from across the room. She can spot a fake Kanjeevaram like a jeweller spots glass. She once corrected a saree seller in Odisha mid-sentence and ended up getting a discount for 'expertise.' I, meanwhile, am still trying to remember whether it's Ikkat or Ikat… and what a Bomkai even looks like.
Sarees are like songs to me… I might forget their names or the exact raga, but I can hum them with heart… and I always remember how they made me feel.
My wardrobe is kind of a colourful mess of all the gorgeous weaves and fabrics India has to offer. There's a deep maroon one that crackles like fire when I move… I call it 'that Diwali sari'. There's a faded blue I wear when I want to feel like a breeze… 'the beachy one'. And there's a rich mustard-and-black beauty that I only wear on days I feel unstoppable… 'Boss Lady sari'. No one tell me it's actually a Chanderi… I don't want to ruin the nickname. In fact, I am my own boss.
Then another one, I really don't know what saree it is… but I named it 'Happening Saree.' This drives my sister nuts.
'That's a Patola from Gujarat! Do you even know how it's made?'
'Nope,' I smile. 'But I do know it makes me feel like I can win a courtroom drama single-handedly.'
She rolls her eyes. I shrug. It's our thing.
Sometimes I tell her, 'If I had memorised saree names the way you have, I'd have become a judge or a magistrate by now!' And then I laugh wholeheartedly, while she mutters something about wasted potential and museum tours.
Every few weeks, I call her while folding my sarees and hold them up like I'm about to take some saree quiz I never studied for.
'This one?'
'Tussar from Bhagalpur.'
'And this?'
'Kota Doria, obviously!'
I nod like I've learnt something life-altering… and then promptly forget it all by the next festive season.
But here's the thing: I may not always remember the name of the weave, but I remember how it felt. I wore the blue one when my story made the front page. Or maybe it was the gold one. Either way, I felt like a queen that day. The pale yellow one I wore when I met someone I didn't expect to like, but ended up loving. The unusual printed cotton I wore through an unforgettable summer… 2019 I think, and a string of quiet, eventual little wins. Then there's the creamy silk with a light green border, an heirloom from Maa's family loom. I wore it at Siddhi's place, where I met friends who have since become like family.
To me, that's the real magic of a saree… not the name or the label, but the life it lives with you.
So yes, I will continue to forget names and mess up pronunciations. Is it Paithani or Pochampally that has the peacocks? I can never keep it straight. Maybe both? Who knows… my sister, probably. And I think Benarasi is a mood, not a place. But hey, I'll still do it all… wrapped up in six yards of whatever confidence and grace I can manage.
And if anyone asks me what I'm wearing?
I'll just say, 'Grace.'