One of my favorite hobbies lately is going through my mother’s wardrobe and choosing sarees to try on. Even though it’s fun now, I imagine my 10-year-old self looking at me with disappointment, and rightly so. She vowed never to wear a saree and here I was breaking that very promise.
Grew up in six yardsS
I grew up in a very small village on the border of Maharashtra. Where I come from, as a married woman you always had to wear a saree with a pallu over your head. Anything else, even a kurta or a kameez, would bring your “character” into question. And so I grew up watching the women in my family wrap themselves in twenty feet of silk or cotton every morning. It felt like watching them restrict and immobilize themselves so that they become aware of their limitations.
From a young age I could see how the garment was used as a sign of obedience. Because of this, I associated saris with the patriarchy and vowed never to wear one. I would never limit myself.
I was observant enough to notice the red lines on their waists and the suffocation of their blouses as they worked in the kitchen. From a young age I could see how the garment was used as a sign of obedience. Because of this, I associated saris with the patriarchy and vowed never to wear one. I would never limit myself. I swore I would be freed from this stuff and fight my battles in my skinny jeans. And I kept that promise for years.
The politics of choice
The Monitoring of women’s clothing It was never about the garment itself. Traditions and rules have long been used to dictate what women can and cannot wear, often under the guise of culture or modesty. But what remains the same is the message: your body does not belong to you. It belongs to the family, the community, the society, the village; They are the ones who get to decide what is appropriate.
What remains the same is the message: your body does not belong to you. It belongs to the family, the community, the society, the village; They are the ones who get to decide what is appropriate.
Likewise, the rules surrounding the sari did not concern the sari at all. They were all about keeping women in their place and making sure we knew we were constantly being watched and judged. I realized that there is a patriarchy at play and it wants to control what I wear. However, swearing off saris would mean that I had allowed myself to do just that.
So I snatched this twenty-foot garment from the clutches of the patriarchy and began wearing it on my own terms. I went to my mother and asked her to teach me how to wear a sari. It didn’t feel oppressive. Surprisingly, I actually felt empowered by it.
What women pass onN
The feeling of sitting in a corner and watching the mother getting ready for an event, adorning herself with gajra and bindi and feeling beautiful before the verdict is passed is remarkable. The camaraderie that exists in a room full of women, each passing around safety pins or a secret folding trick and whispering jokes about sex, pleasure, and everything they’re not allowed to experience, is its own kind of girlhood.
Now when I throw the pallu over my shoulder, I think of my mother’s mother and her mother before her. I think of all the women in my line who wore the same fabrics, who sweat in them, who cried in them, who danced in them. For me, I think of Savitribai Phule, Tarabai Shinde and everyone who fought before me. I inherited the weight of this fabric. I don’t want to pass this garment on as a two meter long cage. I would rather read it as a scroll of our collective stories.
When I think of the ten-year-old girl in this small village who swore never to wear a sari, I don’t think I’ve broken a promise. That’s because I finally understood that what I really rejected all those years ago wasn’t the sari; It meant that the whole village should make rules about my body.
When I think of the ten-year-old girl in this small village who swore never to wear a sari, I don’t think I’ve broken a promise. That’s because I finally understood that what I really rejected all those years ago wasn’t the sari; It meant that the whole village should make rules about my body. Now that I’m the one who decides when to wear it, how to fold it, and what blouse to pair it with, I feel like a rebel again. I’m still just as feminist as I was back then, I’m still trying to overcome the gender norms imposed on me, I’m still fighting, but I choose to do it in a sari. I reclaim what once contained me and wear it as a symbol of my autonomy.
Yukta Chaudhary is an intersectional feminist, author and communications professional based in Mumbai. Her work lies at the intersection of culture, identity and social impact. She writes about feminism, gender and politics from a rural perspective and believes in the power of the written word to drive positive change and create a more inclusive world, one word at a time.