Something Old Turned to Something New, a Borrowed Sari, and No Sixpence in My Shoe

MIXED ASIAN MEDIA - March 9, 2022

By Madeline Bhaskar

Strands of gold interweave together, creating an intricate floral pattern across a silken dreamsicle background. My mother’s sari was laid out before me.

I’ve always wanted to wear a sari, but I was never of age, and I was not invited to nearly enough Indian weddings. I had rocked a hot pink and electric turquoise salwar kameez to my grandmother’s cousins’ daughter’s wedding, only to gaze at the multi-colored, jewel-toned  patterned pleats and flowing pallus of the passing saris. One lazy college summer, I told my father that I had never worn a sari. He then took me to the best sari shop in all of Seattle — my grandmother’s closet. My grandmother jumped at the opportunity and tucked, wrapped, and pinned me into three different saris, while explaining to me how modern saris show too much skin. I stood in each sari for about five minutes, enough to snap a few photos, and back into a jeans and t-shirt.

I guess I could have strutted out to lunch in my elegant garments, but no occasion in the upcoming future seemed worthy of them. I think I was also looking for a deeper reason to wear a sari. Being half Indian and half white, I feel like I need a greenlight from Mindy Kaling or Dr. Sanjay Goopta to do anything relating to my Indian side. I’m Christian, and so are both sides of my family, meaning that Hindu traditions are not a part of my family’s culture. I don’t know anything about Diwali or Holi. No one in my immediate family wears a bindi. You would find more mehndi or henna designs at Coachella than at one of our family weddings. I’ve always said that I practice the “not-so-fun” parts of Indian culture: SAT prep and seeking validation through academic and professional success.

With my wedding approaching, I finally had found a reason to wear a sari. Weddings bring about conversations regarding tradition. From my mother’s sixpence that she wore in her shoe to the thali necklace that is equivalent to a South Indian wedding band, a mixture of traditions flooded my wedding plans. There was one tradition that I wanted to participate in — my mother’s sari. At my parent’s rehearsal dinner, my father’s side presented my mother with a multitude of gifts such as perfume, gold bangles, and a stunning cantaloupe-colored sari with real gold thread interlaced throughout all of it. It was a way to welcome my mother to the Indian side of the family. While we wouldn’t use this tradition to welcome my Mexican American husband to our mixed Indian, German, Welsh, English side, my mother suggested that I could borrow the sari to wear to my rehearsal dinner. The decision was made, and now it was time to accessorize.

The best sari shop in Seattle also has a jewelry department, and my grandma whipped out all of the stops: a gold peacock necklace encrusted in every jewel imaginable, pearl bracelets, and earrings I called “pearl gondolas” — little clusters of opalescence hanging down. Another option for earrings were gold chandelier earrings that my mom had inherited from my grandmother. However, in traditional Indian fashion, the studs were about an eighth of an inch thick. When my mom married into the family, she had no choice but to wear them and forced the stud through her ear, causing them to bleed. She recommended I could do the same, but I declined to participate in that aspect of the tradition.

The sari journey also led me to a sari shop in Culver City, where I had to acquire a blouse to go with the sari. It was the first one I had been to outside of my grandmother’s closet. I wish I had something more romantic to say about the experience. Maybe something along the lines of a transformative experience or how the shopkeeper whisked me away to a sea of fuchsia, marigold, and emerald. In reality, the shop was 80-degrees plus in temperature (similar to my grandmother’s house), and the shopkeeper wasn’t particularly helpful in my search. I still secured a blouse to match the peachy-orange sari, but without the “movie-makeover” experience.

The week of the wedding, all of the components had been assembled, altered, and polished. Within my stressed swirl of emails regarding table numbers and COVID testing, a new conversation arose. My parents were wondering how we should explain the sari to our rehearsal dinner guests. My mother wanted to explain how it was a family tradition, but my father didn’t want to use the word “tradition.” Tradition suggests something that has been practiced throughout generations, when (in reality) my parents’ rehearsal dinner tradition was an adaptation of tradition — a dowry. Me wearing a sari was an adaptation of an adaptation. My father didn’t want our guests thinking that this was something traditionally done in India when it’s origins stemmed from a rehearsal dinner in Michigan. My parents conversed about word choice, while I sat with the questions I had ignored. Is what I’m doing watered down? Is being authentic to me authentic enough? Can I DM Mindy Kaling on Instagram now for some feedback? And do I feel like I’m appropriating Indian culture because I’ve never felt a part of it?

Like most things the week of a wedding, you just push everything down so you can make it down the aisle in one piece. The night of the rehearsal dinner my grandmother and my aunt came over to help me into the sari. My grandmother pleated, pinned, and pressed me into place. My mother did my hair in a half-up-do with a bundle of white flowers in the back. My grandmother wanted us to find jasmine flowers, but jasmine flowers are hard to come by in Temecula, California. My mother then ran out to the back of the AirBnb where she snipped off the ones that best matched my color scheme. I looked in the mirror.

I felt an unfamiliar beauty. I had seen myself in floral frocks, prom dresses, jumpsuits, and cocktail dresses, but I had never seen myself like this. I felt like a princess, but I wasn’t wearing a ballgown. As I looked around at my grandma, my aunt, and my mother, I felt tied to all of them. Maybe it’s because I am tied to all of them: golden strands of my borrowed sari tying us all together. It may not be textbook Indian culture, but it was authentic. It was a genuine expression of culture and familial love, which to me is as authentic as a mixed girl can get.

I look back on these photos and appreciate the hodgepodge nature of the experience. Jewelry from my grandmother, polished by my mother. A blouse from Culver City. A sari from India. Flowers from an AirBnb backyard. The mixed origins of a tradition do not make it any less authentic.

In the end, the rehearsal dinner was wonderful, and everyone was having such a great time that my parents never even made their speech about why I was wearing a sari. The only other hurdle that I had to overcome was losing my mother’s sixpence before the wedding. But I guess that’s how the saying goes. Something old turned to something new, a borrowed sari, and no sixpence in my shoe.

Madeline Bhaskar is a LA-based screenwriter, but she will always remind you that she is originally from the Midwest because cornfields and the cold are what shaped her. Being half Indian and half white, she found herself in challenging and humorous situations, navigating the space in between. In her writing, she explores the moments that define who we become and how we see ourselves. Outside of her time sitting at a computer, Madeline loves taking photos for her pug Instagram @toallthepugsivelovedbefore, watching The Great British Baking Show, and being the coolest youth group leader for her church.