Every summer, I stand in front of my stacks of saris and wonder: which one should I wear today? My mom’s black and brown cotton sari? Or my nani’s pink, green and black sari? Or maybe my blue, coral and yellow sari?

After months of hibernating in a uniform of jeans, sweatshirts and winter jackets, I embrace my saris in summer with a passion. Their vivid colours and gorgeous patterns mirror the riot of colours that suddenly spring upon the city.

More than that, however, my saris come with memories and stories wrapped in between their folds.

I have always loved saris. Growing up in New Delhi, during summer vacations at my nani’s house, I watched her getting ready. My grandparents’ one-bedroom flat had to accommodate all of us, and so changing clothes was a matter of turning your back in the bedroom. I watched her hands quickly flick the pallu over her shoulder and tie the pleats at the front, the sari material swishing with her every move.

In our own home, I frequently opened my mother’s sari closet, running my fingers through the party saris on hangers — silks, satins and chiffons.

In my nani and mum’s closets, I could smell traces of talcum powder and perfume, mixed in with the tangy metallic smell of pure zari — threads made of pure gold or silver. For me, my nani, mum and mausi (mother’s sister) were the most elegant women I knew, decked out in handloom saris, makeup limited to kohl-lined eyes and a bindi on their foreheads.

I couldn’t wait to grow up and start wearing saris. I’d play dress-up when mum wasn’t around, but could never figure out the folds, piles of fabric lying at my feet.

As a teenager in Australia, where my diplomat father was posted, I mused wearing my mother’s silk sari to the school dance, but never mustered the courage to ask her permission. A klutzy kid, I wasn’t trusted to wear one without ripping it.

It wasn’t until I was in Grade 9 in New Delhi that I wore a sari on Diwali. My indulgent mausi lent me her silk one, tying it on me. After that, I regularly borrowed saris from whomever was willing to humour me. And each sari came with a story. This sari was bought on a trip to South India. That sari was part of my mother’s wedding trousseau.

When I moved to Toronto in 1998, I decided to buy a few saris of my own. My nani added to my small collection, giving me her prized Bengal cotton saris, still crisp with starch. My mother later added to it, giving me one of her wedding silk saris, besides a bunch of cottons.

Every time I go back to India, I try to limit my sari purchases to one or two — but am often bewitched by yet another handloom sari that reminds me of the ties that bind me.

On a recent trip back, my nani told me about a pistachio-green net sari that she wore as a young bride, with sequins working their way to the top.

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“They called it a Metro sari. It’s sheer but classy,” she said with a twinkle in her eye, and hunted it down to an aunt’s house, who passed the sari on to me.

These days, I often find my daughter hiding in my sari closet. I catch her running her fingers through my silks and cottons, and watching as I gather the folds. One day, my saris will go to her, and the stories alongside. I hope she will wrap herself in them.