I have never quite been able to explain why Puri has held such a special place in my heart.
May be it’s the lazy languorous summer vacations spent in Puri as a child. The first brush of a wide-eyed me with infinity, the arrogant vastness of space.
May be it’s the allure of the ageless expanse of the Bay of Bengal. The symphony of sun and sand and surf. The cacophony of the sea – gulls. The gorgeous sunrises. The sublime full-moon nights.
Or may be it’s the magnetic charm of the Lord. The imposing ancient temple, the stunning architecture, the awe-inspiring ambience of the holy precincts.
Whatever it is, Puri continues to beckon me even to this day. To return to the Lord. The sea. The sun. The narrow alleys. Where cycle rickshaws and cows jostle for that last available square-inch of space. The Odisi recitals, graceful and sublime. The delectable prasadam and the to-die-for chhana pora.
And of course the weaves. What a stunning array of beauties she has on offer – Splendid Sambalpuris. Pretty pasapallis. Bright bichitrapuris. Delightful kotkis. Beautiful bomkais.
And on the week of the chariot festival when the Lord and his siblings are all set to take a jaunt to their aunt, I had to pick a saree from his blessed land.

This is a lovely bomkai bought years back. A bottle green. With a bright yellow border. And once again for that lazy Sunday lunch