The sisterhood of the travelling sari

The journey of a special sari began more than a decade ago, when my elder daughter was working in Malaysia. On one of her visits to Chennai, she ordered a bespoke designer sari. It was unlike the ones she had grown up seeing me wear — modern yet rooted, traditional yet stylish. She wore it to weddings, gatherings, and festive occasions, carrying a piece of India in foreign lands.

Over the years, the sari slowly found its way into my wardrobe. I inherited it almost by accident, left behind during one of her visits. I wore it on many occasions, savouring its rich hues and the delicate embroidery. Draped around me, it seemed less like clothing and more like a reminder of how threads of family connect generations, binding us no matter the distance.

I assumed the story of the sari would end there, nestled among my collection of heirlooms and occasional wears. But the sari had other plans. The other day, as I scrolled through photos from my younger daughter in Austin, Texas, I paused in surprise. There she was, smiling at a community event, wearing that sari — the very same one her sister had once chosen, and I had later cherished. I laughed out loud, marvelling at how this six-yard wonder had travelled more miles than many people do in a lifetime. From Chennai to Kuala Lumpur, from my own wardrobe in Bengaluru to the distant shores of Austin, the sari had journeyed without the hassle of a passport or visa.

What amused me was how each of us wore it so differently, and uniquely our own. On my elder daughter, it was a declaration of independence and a proud nod to her roots. On me, it was an embrace of continuity, a mother wearing her daughter’s choice with quiet joy. And on my younger daughter, it carried an air of global belonging — an Indian sari blending effortlessly into Texan life.

In that moment, I realised that our “sisterhood of the travelling sari” is not about fashion, though the sari itself is undoubtedly beautiful. It was as if the sari had a will of its own, choosing not to remain with one person but to travel, adapt, and continue creating stories. It is about how objects gain meaning through relationships. It is about continuity amid change, about how something as simple as draped cloth can carry the warmth of shared history.

One day, perhaps, the sari will travel again. Maybe it will return to my elder daughter, or find its way into my granddaughter's trousseau. Wherever it goes, I know it will carry the laughter, love, and layered memories of three women across continents and generations. After all, a sari is never just six yards of fabric. For many women, it is a tapestry of memories, a bearer of stories, and a silent witness to the milestones of life.