Modern fashion has taken many turns – bold lefts and daring rights – creating stunning silhouettes and trends that take social media by storm. Yet, through all its evolutions, one timeless garment remains unchanged: the six yards of a saree.

The mere thought of a saree can evoke deep emotions. It’s more than 6 yards of fabric, it’s a feeling. From a mother’s warmth to a lover’s allure, from a bride’s first blush to a grandmother’s graceful drape, the saree carries stories across generations. It stands, unshaken, for grace, tradition, and elegance. No matter how styles shift, the saree remains a class apart, rooted in culture, yet ever adaptable.

Recently, at an intimate dinner event with none other than the Dream Girl, Hema Malini ji, I pulled out a very special saree from my wardrobe. While the evening itself was exclusive and memorable enough to deserve a spot on social media, it wasn’t long before the attention gently shifted from the legend herself to the six yards I had draped.

It was a Baluchari saree from the West Bengal handloom collection. The scenes from the Ramayana are intricately woven with silk threads, crafted with finesse by master artisans. The color? A mesmerizing hue somewhere between royal blue and violet, subtle yet striking. Whether it was the perfect backdrop of the photo booth or the magic of the professional photographer, I don’t know, but the saree looked refreshingly brand new, even after nearly three decades in my wardrobe. Thanks to Jaison, whose lens added a touch of glamour to the moment.

Some stories and memories don’t fade with time. They simply wait for the right moment to shine again. Since so many friends complimented me on the saree, it inspired me to share the beautiful memory this particular saree holds.

So let me take you all down memory lane.

Mine was an arranged marriage. And to be honest, the way it all unfolded could very well be a plot for a Bollywood film. So let me save those juicy details for another blog and, for now, give you the nutshell version:

My would-be husband was then working in the U.S. He had flown to India for just one week to meet three prospective brides his parents had thoughtfully shortlisted. For very genuine reasons, he felt that none of the matches quite fit into his or his parents’ simple, value-driven expectations. So, he politely declined all three.

But his parents were quite firm that he must return engaged. They believed, like many Indian parents do, that an engagement would reassure them that their son wouldn’t go wandering across foreign lands in search of a companion.

As they say, marriages are made in heaven, and when the stars align, everything falls into place.

Through some timely matchmaking and an overnight horoscope match, the two of us were introduced. I boarded a day-long train from Calcutta to Berhampur in Odisha (which I almost missed due to traffic on the Howrah Bridge and ended up crossing on foot with my luggage in tow!).

My father picked me up at the station late at night. On the way home, I tried to inquire about the boy, but he had little to offer and only knew his last name.

The following morning, we met for just twenty minutes, exchanged a few words, and somehow, it felt like a done deal, as if marriage is some kind of romantic business. That very same day, we got engaged, though the wedding was saved for a later date. Sometimes, life doesn’t give you time to think, only a moment to say yes. Strangely enough, it didn’t feel rushed but it felt written. No trial period, no return policy, just a leap of faith with a smile.

We both returned to our respective lives for the next six months, except now, a phone call from him had become a daily addition to my routine. I was staying with my bachelor brother at the time, who didn’t have a landline. But that didn’t stop my fiancé and he made himself a regular at my neighbor’s phone, calling every single day and leaving me with all the embarrassment! 😄

Naturally, I began to form an impression: this boy must be rich enough to afford all those international calls. (Remember, there was no WhatsApp in the mid-nineties; every minute cost dearly!)

Now, back to the saree…

As the wedding date drew closer, I once told him about my love for sarees from different parts of India. I confessed, a little shyly, that while I dreamed of having a collection, I was still a student and didn’t want to burden my parents or brother, who had already done so much for me.

“But I’m in Calcutta,” I said, “and before I leave this city, I must own a Baluchari – the pride of Bengal.”

He smiled and said, “Don’t ask your brother. Right after the wedding, I’ll buy one for you.”

I felt assured. After all, we’d be returning to Calcutta for visa stamping. And sure enough, we made the trip. But here’s the twist: upon our return, my husband felt obliged to buy gifts for the many family members who had supported the wedding. Before we knew it and with no credit cards in his pocket, his wallet suddenly felt feather-light.

As I laid my eyes on every beautiful Indian accessory, he gently discouraged me, saying those items wouldn’t be useful in a Western lifestyle, so why waste money? And just like that, the promise of my Baluchari quietly slipped away.

He didn’t realize that the promise I had taken for granted had now been broken. The dream of owning that saree seemed uncertain, who knew for how long? Had I known, I would have asked my parents to fit it into the wedding budget. But now, I couldn’t bring myself to ask again. It was a small emotional setback for a newly married wife who couldn’t express even this one small desire.

We went back home before leaving for the US. While others were happy with their gifts, I quietly brooded inside, struggling to reconcile the joy of the occasion with the quiet disappointment that lingered. But I stayed silent.

Three weeks into our marriage, we moved to the US. For a small-town girl like me, switching to Western outfits overnight didn’t sit well with my heart. And though he had rented a two-bedroom townhouse, there was barely any furniture, and his bank balance was nearly zero.

It didn’t take me long to realize he was a true Than Than Gopal (pun fully intended). An entrepreneur, as he called himself, with one partner and a startup running out of someone’s basement. Let’s just say: the modest income trickled, while the spending flowed toward rent and basic needs. Budgeting and saving were still distant ideas. Slowly, the fairy tale began to fade into the quiet realities of married life.

Still, I never made him feel guilty. We adjusted, lived within our means, and moved forward. But the desire for a Baluchari saree stayed. Whenever the moment felt right, I would gently, and with a smile, remind him of the one promise he hadn’t kept.

Then, the following year, we returned to India for my brother’s wedding. Lo and behold, my brother gifted me the very saree I had dreamed of,  the one I’m wearing in the picture. My joy knew no bounds. And I’m certain that moment made my husband realize: some desires don’t carry a price tag.

I wore the saree again recently, when we met Hema Malini ji. Perhaps I was glowing next to her in that same saree, not just because of its rich color or intricate woven patterns, but because of the story it carried.

Sometimes, what we wrap in six yards isn’t just about how we look; it’s about the memories we’ve lived.