A few days back, I found myself in my grandmother’s closet during her yearly cleaning ritual. She told me to pick out any sarees I loved and turn it into a dress, a gown, a kurta set, or whatever I liked. Between stacks of silks and cottons, she even handed me a delicate brooch that someone had gifted her from Japan-a piece so unique it almost feels too precious to touch.
I chose five or six sarees that day. Beautiful silks, some with borders I don’t think that I’ll ever find again in the market. My favorite is a green one with the tiniest, most intricate border and a pallu that tells its own story. I told her, full of excitement, that I would make something out of them for Diwali. But months have passed, and I still don’t have the heart to cut them. They’re too beautiful, too rare, too alive with memory. Even though I don’t wear sarees often, my love for them is unmatched.
Every year before Ganpati, there was another tradition we never missed: saree shopping. My grandmother would buy sarees for Gauri (considered to be Ganpati’s sister or a form of Goddess Sakhi Parvati, who is welcomed home during the festival). After the celebrations, those sarees would be worn by my mom and aunt for Diwali. It became a tradition we still follow, one that ties our festivals and family memories together. As I grew older, my grandmother began gifting me sarees of my own for Diwali. Every year, it was something new, a different textile, a new weave, a surprise waiting to be worn. It made me realize just how vast this industry is. The kinds of fabrics, borders, and embroideries-it’s endless. And it wasn’t just her cupboard. My mom’s saree closet (yes, she has a separate one) has the same effect on me. Her collection of Paithanis and chanderis is stunning, each in colors I dream of wearing someday. Then there’s her red and white Patola, a masterpiece I’ve been eyeing for years.
These sarees are what first made me fall in love with textiles. The meticulous way they’re woven and the richness in their details-they aren’t just clothes. They’re stories passed down through generations. In a world that’s always chasing the new, hand-me-down sarees remind us that fashion has never only been about trends. It has always been about memory, care, and continuity.
And maybe that’s the part I love the most. Everyone today talks about sustainable fashion, but my grandmother’s sarees remind me that this isn’t new. For generations, people valued what they had. Clothes were reworn and passed down, and when their first life ended, they were cut and stitched into something new. Nothing went to waste. A silk saree could become a blouse, a quilt, or even a curtain, always finding another way to live.
Somewhere along the way, we started chasing the idea of new. New trends, new fabrics, and new outfits for every occasion. But the truth is, heirlooms and repurposing were always the original sustainable practices. They teach us that the most responsible fashion choice isn’t always buying something organic or eco-labeled. It’s learning to value what already exists. These fabrics aren’t just textiles.
They are memories you can wear, legacies you can carry, and treasures that will always feel like home.
