This weekend, I rewatched a Bollywood favourite, Rocky Aur Rani Kii Prem Kahaani, a love story between a Punjabi man and a Bengali woman. Being of Bengali descent, I find something deeply comforting in its portrayal of a Bengali family: the banter, the poetry gatherings, the familiar rhythms of family life.
But it was the Durga Puja scene that made me especially nostalgic. Growing up, Durga Puja was our most important celebration. Watching the festivities, with their beautiful red-and-gold saris, brought back memories of one particular sari and the woman who made it for me.
I must have been four or five when I took part in a cultural event with a group of children. We were presenting the Bengali alphabet and reciting poetry, and we were all expected to wear our finest Bengali attire.
My mother, who was of Trinidadian descent, always took pride in making sure we were properly dressed. This occasion would be no different. There was just one problem: I was tiny, and finding Indian clothes that fit me was a challenge.
So my mother decided to make me a sari.
She went to Fabricland and found a piece of shiny material in a beautiful shade of red. Then she chose a gold trim to sew along the top and bottom edges. She made a matching blouse, complete with puffed sleeves and gold trim around the cuffs.
To anyone else, it might have been a little red sari. To me, it was an outfit fit for a princess, made especially for me by my mother.
On the day of the performance, she put liquid eyeliner on my eyes. It stung. Even now, whenever I use liquid eyeliner, I think of her. She finished with a little lipstick, and then I was off to stand before an audience of 300 people and deliver my line.
I said it perfectly. But what I remember most is not the line, or even the audience. I remember how pretty I felt.
In that little sari, I felt as Bengali as I could possibly be. Looking back, I also see my mother’s love in every detail: the carefully chosen fabric, the gold border, the puffed sleeves. She had taken the time to make something that allowed me to feel part of a tradition, rather than a child struggling to fit into clothes that were too big.
That was the first of several red saris that would mark important moments in my life.
When I was pregnant with my daughters, I wore a red sari for a religious ceremony. Once again, it had to be custom-made, this time to accommodate the precious cargo I was carrying. By then, my mother’s health no longer allowed her to make another magical red sari for me. I had to turn to someone else, but the memory of the first one stayed with me.
And, of course, I wore a beautiful red sari for my wedding ceremony, as tradition called for. We had purchased it in India, and I have kept it carefully, just in case a future generation would like to wear it.
Watching that Durga Puja scene reminded me how much a colour, a piece of fabric or a familiar celebration can hold. For me, the red sari carries memories of childhood, marriage and motherhood. It connects the traditions I grew up with to the ones I hope will continue.
But before all of that, there was my mother, a piece of shiny red fabric and a little girl who could hardly wait to step onto the stage. Thank you Mom for giving me that memory and heritage and making me feel so loved. It is why Red remains such an important colour for me.
But that’s just one Diva’s view.
