The Depth of a Sari’s Folds

by Syeda Hasan - University of Texas at Austin

When I suggested to my mom that I be allowed to wear a sari to her cousin’s wedding in Pakistan this summer, I was surprised to see such a puzzled expression on her face.

“A sari?” she said with a chuckle. “We’ll go clothes shopping together when you come visit.”

In her usual subtle way, she maneuvered the situation so that any outfit I picked out to wear to the wedding would be prescreened and mom-approved. She changed the subject of our conversation to discussing my little brother’s daily antics, and I was left with a head buzzing with thoughts of why my wearing a sari was so out of the question.

I thought back to my first visit to Pakistan in 2008. I remembered seeing the latest styles of shalwar kameez in all the markets and store windows. The women of Karachi formed a vibrant rainbow of shalwar kameez colors and patterns, and there was even the occasional progressive-minded woman boldly strolling by in a T-shirt and jeans – but where were all the saris? How could a garment so traditional become so minute in such a large part of the subcontinent?

My curiosity sent me poring over the internet for articles about the history of the sari. I was stunned when I learned that when Pakistan was founded as a Muslim nation in 1947, the nation’s first lady Fatima Jinnah publicly denounced the garment as unpatriotic. She implied that saris were the traditional dress of Hindus and therefore inappropriate attire for the Muslim women of Pakistan.

I felt a pang of sadness when I read that some elderly Pakistani women still regularly wear saris because they are used to wearing them from pre-Partition days. I thought of my grandma who passed away a few years ago, and how my entire life, I never saw her wear anything but saris. She just wasn’t comfortable in anything else. Her saris were a part of her identity. They were part of all the traditions, customs, and ancient ways of life she carried with her. From India to Pakistan to America, she wore them so instinctively and gracefully. She knew just how to tuck them out of the way when doing housework. She could modestly drape the end piece over her head when reciting a prayer. Her elegance is what defined the beauty of the sari for me, and that elegance is what I wanted to celebrate by wearing one for the first time this summer.

Maybe it is just my naivety as an American-born South Asian girl about all of the social and political etiquettes that silently govern our part of the world, but I don’t see any reason why it shouldn’t be acceptable for me to wear a sari to the wedding. I understand that because my mom grew up in Pakistan, she has a much clearer understanding of what the accepted norms are there. That’s what she is trying to help me grapple with when she forbids me from doing or wearing something unconventional. I know she doesn’t want anyone to perceive me as backwards or odd. But if I have it my way, I’m going to stick to my belief that what is popularly accepted is not always right, and I hope that on my visit to Karachi this summer, I get my first chance to wear one of these beautiful ancient dresses that have been hidden away in the folds of Pakistan’s past.