Verve Magazine, Fashion, September 2010

There’s something sexy about a low-waisted lehnga with a shimmering choli – it’s the eternal ‘come hither’ which is playful, young, flirtatious and so very Navratri, when you’re totally on a high with all the eligible men checking you out. A sari in its very drape is elegant sophistication – it is too mature somehow – like you need to tread carefully before stepping into those pleats! I think that’s exactly why for the longest time, I stuck to lehngas that spun out into an umbrella-shaped twirl as I danced the nights away at various sangeets and dandiya-raases. They made me feel carefree with anticipation, like the stars of the night had many memorable tales left to be told as they winked against the delicate mirror-work embroidery on my outfit. I even got married in a lehnga; and it made me hold onto my youth, unconsciously and tenaciously. Three years after my wedding, I felt the desire to be, to look different – to be more woman, less girl. I tentatively plucked the folds of a beautiful vintage black-and-silver sari that my mother wore to my reception, and drew it to myself. I found a different person looking back at me in the mirror – someone who walked not floated, stood up straight with grace and dignity. From the moment I stepped into pleats it took me years to learn how to get it right (I still struggle occasionally), I began to walk in yards of fabric that I still often pull out with my bejewelled shoes at the very moment I am to enter an event, but I never looked back. I’ve steadily begun to turn a girl’s closet into a woman’s tresorie, replete with beautiful variations of the nine-yard magic drape that makes me more woman – every time I wear it.