Sari brings me closer to my grandma’s spirit

OVER the past two decades, I have lived in seven homes.

Some, like my place in Mumbai, India, had custom-built, walk-in wardrobes; in a tiny, one-bedroom flat in Mayfair, central London, I had only a few clothes rails from Argos.

But across countries and continents, one item of clothing has been a constant. It is my least practical outfit, weighing 3.5 kg

(7.7 lb), and I typically wear it just once a year. But each time I do, I feel a powerful connection to my grandmother (inset above), who died more than a decade ago at the age of 93.

The outfit I refer to is a sari, which in Sanskrit means ‘strip of cloth’. But it is so much more than that. For Indians, it is a part of our national identity, one we are incredibly proud of.

This sari was woven in Benares, a town in northern India, where weavers have been spinning magic on hand-operated looms for hundreds of years.

A gauzy cream and gold base fabric, called tissue, has been hand-embroidered with traditional motifs using a technique called Zardozi, believed to date back to the 14th century. The tissue fabric for this sari was spun using pure silver woven with silk yarn. Today, there are only a handful who know how to weave it.

The sari was ordered as part of my grandmother’s trousseau and she wore it with a modest long-sleeved blouse like the one I have on here.

I first wore it for Diwali in 2010, the year my grandmother died. I missed her so desperately on that day, but wearing it was almost a spiritual experience that made me realise I would always have her love and wisdom to draw on.