On the Wearing of Sarees

A Banarasi Saree

I’ve had sarees wear me far more often than I’ve had myself wear sarees. I can’t see the grace or the elegance of a person, myself specifically, that so many rave of whilst wearing a saree. 

Sarees themselves though, I do see. As works of art that take skill to create far beyond what many a contemporary, upper class artist can lay claim to, even if the artistry of the weaver isn’t acclaimed in the way the supposed talent of the well-connected urban artist is. As part of a larger whole, with a history often connected to exploitation and casteism but, still, essentially stable and predictable. As a testament to endurance and longevity which has, almost unchanged, survived the centuries. As a connection to a continuity, reaching back through the generations, which makes minor everyday turbulence fall into place simply by making it seemingly inconsequential.

The wearing of a saree: armour, almost shroud, disguise, convenience. I may not see the elegance of a saree on myself but I am cognizant of the practicality of not feeling obliged to adhere to the latest fashions in the wearing of a saree – there are no latest fashions – and of, what is to me, the sheer delight of having avoided often time-consuming expectations of 'proper' accessorisation attendant to more modern attire without making the slightest effort to do so. To me, the wearing of a saree isn’t an effort. It’s usually less than a two-minute investment of time; far less time than it would take me to wear anything else I could wear. And being able to turn any saree into a chrysalis in seconds should the need arise, hiding myself beneath its folds till no one sees anything of me beyond what I want them to see, makes for sanctuary.

There is, of course, the well-entrenched idea that the wearing of a saree lends a woman, particularly the visibly young(ish) urban woman, gravitas. Beyond that though, the ability to virtually remould one’s image or to simply disappear at will is often underrated. The ability to be vastly outrageous and to verbally challenge social norms in a manner which would almost never be accepted from a woman in any other attire. Simply because the saree can be used to create the perception of being non-threatening, of respecting tradition – even the most regressive tradition and even if one doesn’t have an iota of respect for it – of supposedly being ‘on the same side’ as some of the most conservative people around. The saree is as much weapon as it is armour.

It is, for me, also tangible reminder of the life I’ve lived; so many of my sarees are marked with memories of unpleasant experiences with men. I haven’t discarded any of them: they are a constant reminder of what I have survived, of what I now know I can survive. Of who I am. To live life is too often to live through the violence of patriarchy. 

The memories are not all ghastly though. There are sarees from people I’ve loved, who’ve loved me. Sarees which, even if they’re now unwearable, once belonged to people who matter to me and which I’ve spent a relative fortune restoring because the sarees are all I have to touch, because letting go of the sarees could feel like letting go of a part of them.

My sarees call out to me, reminding me of people I’ve known, and sometimes loved; they are often works of wearable art which, steeped in history, tell me that there is a point to it all and which, when they wear me, are pure unadulterated joy.

(On #WorldSareeDay, sharing a personal note I'd written years ago about the wearing of sarees. The sheer variety of Indian sarees is, of course, astounding and many of them have been assigned geographical indications which are intended to protect them and the artists who create them. Sadly,  Indian handlooms and hand-printing have been struggling to survive, and although recent years have seen a limited resurgence of sorts, it has become clear that the grant of a geographical indication, while helpful, isn't enough in itself to ensure that an art form thrives.)