Riya, a single mother, and her only child Aryan, 18, were visiting her elder sister’s house in Lucknow for the weekend. The timing was special — it was Saree Day at Aryan’s cousin Nitya’s college, and her mother and aunt were both thrilled.
The morning was filled with excitement. Nitya was being draped in her first saree — a peach georgette with gold border. Riya and her sister circled around her like stylists at a shoot.
Aunty: “Thoda aur tight karo pallu. Yeh lo, chudiya pehna do.”
Riya: “Oh ho! Nitya, you look just like your ma when she wore her first saree!”
They clicked pictures, adjusted her pleats, tucked in the pallu again and again.
Aryan watched from the corner — quiet, unsure.
Nobody asked if he wanted breakfast.
Nobody noticed when he moved away to sit in the balcony.
It was like he was invisible.
They returned to their own flat in the evening.
Aryan helped with the bags, removed his shoes, and finally asked:
Aryan: “Ma… did you even see me today?”
Riya: “Huh? Of course, beta. What do you mean?”
Aryan: “All day it was Nitya this, Nitya that, saree this, saree that. Not even a hello after we arrived.”
Riya (sighing): “Aryan… she was wearing her first saree. You know how we get with these things.”
Aryan didn’t reply. He just got up and went into Riya’s bedroom, opened her wardrobe and took out a deep green cotton saree.
Riya didn’t notice.
He messages his neighbour friend to immediately come to his house, he needs her help and bring some of her jewellery.
Aryan sat on the edge of his bed, the green cotton saree draped across his lap. His phone buzzed with a reply.
Simran: “Coming. What is this ‘help’ suddenly? Saree?!”
Ten minutes later, Simran walked in, still in her track pants, a little out of breath.
Simran: “Okay, what’s going on?”
Aryan simply pointed at the saree and said:
Aryan: “Can you help me wear this properly? You know I’ve never done it.”
Simran blinked, looked at the saree, then back at Aryan — and slowly smiled.
Simran: “Seriously?”
Aryan: “Yeah. Today everyone was so happy dressing my cousin. I don’t know. I just... wanted to try. Properly.”
She didn’t tease him. Didn’t laugh. She just nodded.
Simran: “Alright. Let’s do it.”
She took the saree from his hands and spread it on the bed, checking the fall and border.
Simran: “Do you have a petticoat? Plain black or green?”
Aryan: “Yeah, Ma’s. One sec.”
He brought it from the cupboard and quickly stepped into it behind the curtain. She waited patiently, tying her hair into a bun.
Once he was ready, she guided him to stand straight in the middle of the room.
Simran: “Lift your arms slightly. We’ll start from the tuck.”
She tucked the saree neatly at his waist, wrapped it around once, and began folding the pleats — even and sharp.
Simran: “Hold these here. Don’t move.”
Aryan held the pleats while she adjusted them at the center, tucking them in.
Then she brought the pallu around his shoulder and draped it cleanly.
Simran: “Okay. That’s actually better than I expected. You’re not slouching. Bonus points.”
He laughed quietly.
She turned to his dresser, opened her small pouch, and pulled out a few things.
Simran: “Look — I brought bangles, jhumkas, and bindi. You game?”
Aryan: “Sure. Let’s go all the way.”
She gently slid the green glass bangles onto his wrists.
Then she placed the small jhumkas on his ears.
Simran: “Your hair… wow, it’s long. Do you always keep it like this?”
Aryan: “Yeah. Oil and braid mostly. Not always, but often.”
Simran: “Sit. I’ll fix it.”
He sat cross-legged on the rug. She ran her fingers through his hair, parting it with a comb, applying a little oil she kept in her pouch.
Simran (smiling): “You’ve got better hair than me.”
She gently combed it through, then began braiding it slowly and tightly, tying the end with a black elastic.
Finally, she picked a small round bindi and placed it between his brows.
She stepped back, arms crossed.
Simran: “There. Neat pleats. Decent braid. Simple bindi. You’re saree-ready.”
Aryan looked in the mirror — quietly, for a long moment. He smiled, not wide, just soft.
After about an hour, Aryan knocked softly and then opened Riya’s door.
She stopped in her tracks when she saw him standing there in the green saree, bangles softly jingling on his wrists, braid neatly resting over his shoulder.
Riya: “Aryan? Yeh kya hai? Saree mein?”
Aryan turned slowly, a little nervous but steady.
Aryan: “Ma… I just wanted to feel what it’s like. You and Aunty were so happy with Nitya today, and I felt left out. So, I thought maybe if I wore one too, I’d get a little attention.”
Riya blinked, then a small smile spread on her face.
Riya: “Tumne khud se? And who helped you?”
Aryan nodded toward the door.
Aryan: “Simran helped me. She knows how to do saree properly.”
Riya walked in and sat down beside him.
Riya: “You look… quite nice actually. That pleat is neat, and your braid looks good.”
Aryan relaxed a bit.
Riya: “But a small thing — you need to shave your beard if you’re going to wear sarees regularly.”
Aryan laughed softly.
Aryan: “Deal. I’ll shave.”
From that day on, it quietly became their new normal.
Every evening after Aryan came home from college, he’d ask:
Aryan: “Ma, which saree today? The yellow one or the blue?”
Riya would smile, pick out a saree, and help him get changed.
She would sit him down, oil his hair, and braid it tightly.
She’d help him pleat the saree and tie the pallu just right.
The sound of bangles clinking and the smell of coconut oil filled their little home.