The kanjeevaram in the header…

is my mother’s. It was bought for her brother’s wedding. After some years in service as a sari and many years in service filling up space in her Godrej with hundreds of other silks, three years ago it was reincarnated as a comforter. While most of the sari went in to making a double duvet, bits of the border that were left over were converted in to cushion covers. The sari has provided many hours of warmth on cold winter afternoons and has kept my feet cozy during late night movie sessions. My son has crawled on it, slept on it and played on it. The silk is old and beginning to give. ‘Iththu poradhu’. Amma wants me to bring it back next time I come to Madras. She will make me another comforter she says. She has a nagapazha coloured Banarasi that was her reception sari. She will give this one to a shop that extracts the silver from the zari. But I don’t think I will. Holes and all, the sari, is a small piece of my mother, of her history, of her life before my sister and I. A part of her life I have little knowledge of. But I can imagine her young and radiant in this sari, the silk a beguiling mix of blue, brown and under certain lights, purple.

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