Let me do it, was the thought that came to my mind when I vouched to be a part of the Sareepact. Not that I have 100 sarees but somewhere deep inside the crevices of my heart and soul I had more than a 100 stories that were steaming inside to be narrated and looking for a vent. Each like those delicate threads that the saree is made of. Some vibrant, some blithe, some evoking melancholy but each saree assuringly radiating a kind of sheen hard to escape.

With furtherance on this odyssey, I discover that the caravan constitutes of beautiful, sensual, intelligent and like minded array of women. I began relating to all of their thoughts, their anxieties, their cheer, their passion to drape the saree which was so relegated till some few months back, imprisoned in those dark cupboards.

“Problems of plenty” is the tag that we all wear today. And so true. A saree is worn only once or twice or maybe a third time if it is fortunate enough. Not that I love it lesser than I used to, not also because that the silk has turned dull, not even that the threads have loosened but for the plain reason that it has been long stagnant in the dark. The passive form has invited a tiny line of dust on the folds, that is all. We could splurge to infinity and get new sarees whenever the instinct manifests.

Except for those little times when replacing the freshener inside these folds, the sarees would pine for a touch of skin and an embrace. “I have already worn this Kanjeevaram for a family wedding!!”, I would exclaim when my mom would dart a reminder pertaining to it while watching a frantic me rummaging through the shelves to find an ensemble for the soirée. “So what?!”, her eyes would almost gulp me up in fury as if I was a criminal. Directing me towards childhood days and while treading in a museum of memories, she would make me nudge those portrait moments when every little thing was such a huge, monumental possession. Be it a watch, a bag, a saree or that tiny black dress. More because they were decorated with the sweat and blood of a hardworking father, the love of a mother who with pains would struggle to get it for me.
Yes I realise that myriad times, we all need an escort who frees us from the shackles of some pre fixed notions that mar us from living life with simplicity.

Repetition, is not to be looked down but a cherishing of each of the factors that go in producing the beauty of a weave. Moreover a celebration of memories from the archives. An eye opener, Her words resonate even today and break through the dull moments blazing a trail like the timeless sunshine in which I bathe every single day.

Propels me to reach out to these beauties from the flashback.

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