I don’t know if everyone will relate to this but did you, as girls, watch your mum get ready for an event?

I’ll never forget that image. I remember, my mum would walk out of her bath, in a blouse and petticoat, hair tied in a small bun (my mum has thin hair). First things first, she’d apply a heap of talcum powder around her neck to beat the sweat. The heat in this country has only increased ever since. She’d then apply some facial lotion, increase the speed of the fan with the same reaction “baap re it’s too hot” every time. She’d then unfold the neatly folded sari. Always a silk. Chennai silk this and Tussar silk that. She’d get annoyed by the speed of the fan because her saree would be flying away. So she’d ask me to reduce the fan speed.

She’d then start draping her sari. It wasn’t anything too elaborate or ritualistic. It would be a quick drape, but a perfect one. The pallu, always left loose (never pleated). She’d say pleated pallu looked horrible on her; that she loved her saree pallu to be free flowing in air (some Sridevi chiffon sari inspiration maybe).

Slowly then, small tin cans (which were originally Nivea cream boxes, now used for jewellery) would start coming out of the dressing drawer. One for the mangalsutras, one for earrings, one for bangles and one for bindis.

She’d seat herself at the edge of the bed in the room, open all the cans at once. She’d look at me, show me every piece of jewellery and ask me which one looked better. I was so young but I remember she’d take my opinion on all of it.

Then she’d start wearing it all one by one. First came the earrings, then mangalsutra (I’d always choose the dainty one for her), then the bangles. The mangalsutra would tangle itself in her hair and she’d ask me to entangle it, sometimes breaking a few hair of hers (oops!).

She’d then open the bindi booklets. When she was young, she wouldn’t ask me if the colour of the bindi was matching her sari but slowly as the years passed and she started wearing her spectacles (the 40s and the menopause hit hard), she’d turn and look at me, ask me for her specs which were never around and then defeatedly ask me to check if her bindi colour matched her sari. Almost always, it didn’t. And I’d giggle, choose the right coloured bindi and place it on her forehead. If her pallu wasn’t pinned properly she’d probably ask me to pin it up.

She’d then take out a Kajal pencil, look into the mirror and gently line her undereye with the pencil. Then came the lipstick (almost always shades of brown). Just two quick swatches on the upper and lower lip, a quick perp of lips. The only task left was now doing her hair. She would comb them quickly, take out a clutch, and tie her hair.

She’d take a few seconds to look at herself in the mirror but that wasn’t the real validation ever. She’d turn around and look at me. She’d ask – all ok? Looks ok? And I’d give the same reaction each time – that she should only wear sarees. She looks the best in them. And that dad liked her in a saree too. She’d give me the same explanation each time – it’s a hassle carrying oneself in sari while doing home chores. The heat in this city dosent help. If she’d been working in an AC office, she’d probably wear them often. Then she’d say to me that someday her daughter will. She’d tell me that someday I will work in an office just like my dad and wear sarees and a small mangalsutra and a bindi and that I’ll look just like her.

I never thought about what she said until much later. Wearing sarees to work or even just wearing sarees at all, felt like a “big girl” thing to do. Why would I even do it? I’d be free. I’d wear what I want, when I want and I’d of course never wear a mangalsutra! So I just couldn’t take my mum seriously.

Many years later, after I was married, and worked for about 8-9 years, one random day, I called my mum and asked her to lend me her black saree. I said, let me try wearing it to office once. There was excitement in her voice. But I know, she kept it all mellow. She was scared that if she’d get too excited, it’ll overwhelm me. She quietly sent me not one but three options of sarees.

And there I was. One day. Awake at 7:30 am on a work day, applying a heap of talcum powder on my neck. Followed by draping my mum’s sari. Wore a small (almost invisible) mangalsutra, a small (almost invisible) bindi, two quick swatches of lipstick (brown, yes)

now complaining about the heat in the city to my husband.And then my husband turning around and telling me that he loves me the most in a saree and that I should always wear it to work. And I said to him that it’s impossible to wear it everyday.

-Aishwarya Bedekar