I am always dreamt of, demanded and cherished like none other. One can wear a power suit to work, a pair of jeans to a movie or a salwar kameez when out shopping. But no one can ignore me on the most important day of one’s life – the day one gets married.

I am the true companion of a bride; the one who makes her as beautiful as a lotus blossom, as elegant as a swan and as virginal as an early morning dew drop. I accentuate her glamorous gold, wipe away her nubile nervousness and embellish her deepest desires. Irrespective of the shade I hold with aplomb, be it orgasmic orange, ravishing red or passionate purple, the picture I paint in the minds of those that behold is one that is all encompassing. Like a brilliant rainbow that cuts through the clouds of gloom, I was weaved to wow, irrespective of whether or not you believe, in the pot of gold that awaits anyone who embraces me without hesitation.

Well, in case you haven’t yet guessed it, I am the queen of the nine yards, a serenading sari if you may. Don’t confuse me with a West Indian Paithani, an East Indian Jamdaani or a South Indian Kanjeevaram. I am the queen that surveys it all – the bewitchingly beautiful Benarasi.

But somehow none of that matters now, as I lay forlorn and forgotten in the household of a bourgeois Bengali. Things are not quite what they seem to be. I can hear a sound that has been missing from the living room for a long time now. The TV has been switched on today. I can hear a stream of indistinguishable voices speaking, pausing, and then continuing, even as the background music changes constantly. The cacophony of change finally subsides as a channel is casually chosen. Ironically it is my birthplace – Benares that is being talked about now.

God’s gift to politics - Narendra Modi, is on his way to file his nomination papers and all hell (thank heavens), seems to have broken loose. A jubilant reporter has miraculously managed to get to a vantage point allowing an unobstructed view of the street below. Courtesy a diligent cameraman, a panoramic view of a bustling street of Varanasi is streaming across the TV screen accompanied by the words ‘Breaking News’. This seems like news indeed, after all when was the last time you saw a sea of people swarming around a cavalcade passing through, as if it was the Ark of Noah, and their only hope of survival?

Ironic, isn’t it, that I tell you of hope when I hold within my folds none?
Sorry, it isn’t time yet to talk of my fate. I instead need to introduce you to the one in whose hands lies the destiny of the channel’s TRP. Well, no, it isn’t a wiry politician, but rather one of the billions he hopes to serve – the owner of the television, a bespectacled Bengali - Anirban Chatterjee. Anirban is a software engineer by profession who stays in a by-lane of North Calcutta. Today he is working from home for a company whose name cannot be disclosed for confidentiality purposes. Let’s just refer to its abbreviation instead – IBM. There, I can’t give you any more clues, okay?

I was brought up to never quite like people like Anirban. See I’m not trying to be sexist, but then, how could I care for a person who was only interested in getting me out of the way so that he could consummate his marriage with fervent passion?
But this Anirban wasn’t the usual kind. Well no, it’s not that he didn’t want or need to act with consummate ease. They all do. But instead his being different was more to do with the choices he made than the person he was. Anirban was apolitical when it came to voice modulation enhanced debates on the next best thing in politics. He was prone to a sudden loss of appetite when it came to fish, the ubiquitous itinerary on the menu for any self respecting Bong. To top it all, Anirban seemed to lack any semblance of passion for the greatest sport that existed in the minds of anyone from Kolkata – football. He was different indeed but yet he was absolutely Bengali in his insistence that the bride must wear a Benarasi for the reception, thereby making it mandatory for me to give him a cursory second chance.

I still remember the way I was chosen amongst hundreds from the iconic ‘Priyo Gopal Bishoyi’ in Burrabazar .It hadn’t been the usual way a groom’s family might choose the wedding trousseau. Unlike most Indians who preferred a modern take on buying a sari to be worn at a reception, this wasn’t a sojourn where a coy bride-to-be had been invited by the groom’s family to give her nod of approval to her would-be mother-in-law’s choice.

The groom’s mother had been unwell and hence unable go for shopping. The groom was forced to tackle a mountain of work at office and thus missing from action as well. The bride’s family had been insistent. After all, they reasoned, with just a few months left for the wedding, this important purchase could not be postponed any longer. How could the tailors make that perfect blouse to go with the sari if they did not receive the blouse piece well in advance? To cut a long story short, her wedding sari had been chosen by the bride herself. But it wasn’t done in the way you might usually imagine. “Aunty,” she had crooned softly into her Smartphone, even as the belligerent shopkeeper kept his smile frozen across his lips. “Is there any colour you wish me to buy in particular?”
“Yes dear,” answered back a voice, “I would prefer you to buy a golden or purple Benarasi.”

There, I thought, smiling inwardly at the crease of dismay appearing along the surface of a peacock green sari which waited arrogantly in the queue of selection much ahead of me. “Move over woman,” I sniggered as I was promptly, in lieu of not just my heritage, but also colour, brought to the forefront by the shopkeeper.

I waited with bated breath then, to be looked at with a gaze of admiration, which would give way to one of longing, before finally settling down on pride. What I instead received was a vacant gaze of indifference. I was surprised but not amused. For I was only too eager to finally bid farewell to the hundreds of others like me who were yet to find their calling, even as I made my way towards a lifetime of happy memories. But I was, you see terribly mistaken, though I wasn’t to know of it yet.

It was the bride’s father who took upon himself the responsibility of handing me over to my rightful owner. I was accompanied obviously by a price tag not many would be able to afford, and thus assured of a lustrous and caring future ahead of me. Or so I thought, in the process being caught up with a sense of abject arrogance, even as the box was opened and my approver’s face revealed to me.

For a moment I was caught unaware as a face peered down upon me. Her eyes had a glazed look, her skin was pale, and her lips parted slightly to facilitate breathing. And then suddenly, just as a strong beam of sunshine breaks through the clouds, she smiled. It was a smile so radiant that it seemed to completely transform her face even as it reached up to her eyes and touched my heart. Her eyes glistened with longing, her lips quavered with a gamut of emotions I couldn’t quite fathom even as her brow straightened, no longer furrowed with worry.

“Mr Debnath,” she whispered, “this is bewitchingly beautiful!” And, just like that, I was given the stamp of approval!

Over the course of the evening, a bundle of notes exchanged hands and a call was made to lavish praise on the bride-to-be’s fantastic choice. I wanted to yell my disapproval. The girl had hardly spent a few minutes on choosing me! Instead, it seemed like I had been picked simply because of my colour. But then I shushed myself. No self respecting sari could ever care to acknowledge that she had been chosen without care; especially not one with a heritage as regal as mine.

When Anirban came home later in the evening, Mr. Debnath was still there. Anirban walked in with a smile undiminished by the quarter of an hour minus an air conditioner that he was forced to spend while returning home via his office transport – a wingless Tata Winger. He did not flinch even once as he dutifully bent over to touch the feet of his beloved’s father. Mr. Debnath, it seems, was waiting to show his future son in law the wonderful raw silk kurta that had been picked to accentuate me. Honestly, there was no competition in here. It was like trying to arrange the hyacinth while taking a snap of a flamingo, if you know what I mean! But there were rituals to be followed, and hence I decided to acquiescence and try to play down my beauty a bit. As if that was possible!

But then I needn’t have, I soon realized. Mr. Debnath did not wear glasses, the poor soul; else he might have caught the look of mild disapproval on Anirban’s face as he saw the crimson kurta pyjama with light embroidery that he had been gifted. It was a type he wouldn’t touch with a barge pole. But then as he moved over to me, carefully unwrapping the paraffin paper to look into at me, his demeanour changed.

I could clearly see the sparkle of admiration that was indistinguishably present in his eyes. “This is indeed beautiful!” he exclaimed softly, almost purring like a satisfied feline, and to be honest my already happy heart swelled with pride as he gazed at the intricate detailing, the maverick motifs, and the puritanical zari work. Every single glance of satisfaction caused my strands of desire to slowly weave itself into a pair of wings and then suddenly, I was flying. Flying with the hope of being the reigning queen, on the day I would be most admired as I turned an ordinary damsel into a desirable dream. One who could shame even the heavenly apsaras into retreating into the background. Never before and never again does a woman look as beautiful as she does on the day of the wedding and it was I who was to make that possible.

My flight of fancy came crashing down as I was brought back into the present with a flash of lightening. Sorry, I think I had been a bit too muddled as I said that. It was a flash all right, but from a camera. A Canon EOS 700D DLSR Camera to be precise. My owner had class, wasn’t my very presence in this house an existence of that fact?

Anyway, getting back to facts, there was a marked difference in the surroundings now, I realized. The TV for one had now been conveniently switched off. But that was not all. The soft mood lighting had been replaced by harsh white fluorescent lights, while his Hewlett Packard had taken over the space earlier occupied by his Lenovo Thinkpad. I could see his eyes, narrowed with concentration, as he stared at the screen. Suddenly the room was once again filled with a semblance of sound as music seeped through the speakers like a fresh gush of wind blows across a meadow of flowers, bringing in its wake a much desired freshness. However that did not seem to make him take his eyes off whatever he was looking at.

Even as I watched, he connected the camera to his laptop with a data cable, and began uploading my semblances onto his hard disk drive. For a moment I closed my eyes in anticipation, and as I opened them, my perspectives had magically multiplied. I shivered as I began to experience an out of body experience feeling like never before. So this is what it means be captured in intricate lifelike detail? I thought as I suddenly had a multitude of vantage points. This was probably why mine as well as my photographs’ shared memories began to turn back the clock to a month after I was brought into the Chatterjee household.

I could clearly hear every word being exchanged. “You could have told me so!” he was saying, somehow managing to keep his volume in check, in spite of the temptation, “that you did not wish to buy a sari in the colours maa asked you to.” He continued after a while, his face showing no hints of what might have been going through his mind. “I clearly think we are rushing into this. Let’s postpone the date by a month and a half. You will also get some more time to decide. And if need be, I will personally buy you another sari. This could be your anniversary gift in advance, okay?”

Even as a smile returned onto his face, I shivered inwardly. This was not what I was expecting. I may not even be worn for the wedding? This was preposterous! How could he do this to me? Did I not have desires coursing through my strands as well, just like blood pumps through yours? I was already happy being taken out on a few occasions only, as long as I could be the cynosure of all eyes on the day it mattered. And now, to think that I would not even be allowed to be celebrated that very day was a thought I could not even begin to clearly grasp. I could inwardly imagine the vermilion Benarasi mocking me in undisguised delight. “At least I made it to a wedding. What about you? Where are you headed purple possum?”

A few weeks later I was unexpectedly taken out of the cupboard by Mrs. Chatterjee. This wasn’t one of those occasions where a guest who mattered would casually be given a cursory glance of me, more so as an indication of the grandness of the impending wedding. This seemed very different.

She took me out, put her hands over me, and sighed deeply. Her face was sallow and pale, and her eyes had a pallor about them that was hard to miss. Even as I watched, stunned into silence, I could clearly see a teardrop running down her eyes. I was woven to read into the deepest desires of one’s mind. I was ready for almost all emotions one could think of. Of jubilant joy as a bride-to-be awaits something extraordinary, and of pain and anguish, as a she leaves her family forever, realizing with pity that everything comes at a price. Of trepidation as she awaits a new life with her husband in the bed chamber, wondering of the many twists and turns her life might take, and of pride when she wears it once again, to celebrate a special day to be cherished forever, reminding herself that she indeed made the right choice. And finally, of pathos, when as she looks into the mirror, only to realize that it is time to lock away her once favourite companion to a corner of her wardrobe forever, till an inheritance can be deservingly claimed by a next generation member of the family.

But I was not prepared for the pain that coursed through her heaving bosom as she began to cry. The sobs of agony, pain, and hopelessness washed over me like a terrifying tide that could break the hardest of rocks. “Oh what have I done” she thought, her eyes swelling up with unflinching pain, “how could I choose her for my only son" she wondered, her face contorting with anxiety. “She is adamant that the date has to be shifted. She wishes for it now when the wedding cards have been printed. But what if it’s too late, what if I never get to see him get married and settle down blissfully?”

She paused, wiping away the tears lest it affect me, and then continued “He let me choose for him, and accepted my choice without asking any whatsoever. But what if I was terribly wrong? What if I have made the gravest mistake of my life?”

Suddenly, Anirban entered the room and she quickly tried her best to bring a smile back to her face. But a son always knows. He hugged her and patted her back, “Let it go Ma”, he said, even as she was no longer able to control, and recklessly allowed her emotions to flow. “I will talk to her, my son” she said, “I will convince her to see reason. I am sure she would understand!”

“It does not matter Ma” he replied, his voice straining slightly as he did his best to remain strong and steady. “I don’t think she wishes to…” but he didn’t get to complete his sentence for she promptly put her hand across his lips and shushed him. He smiled and looked her in the eye even as he slowly put her hand away, kissing it gently. “I love you maa. Not everyone can understand that. But there must be someone who will, and it will surely be worth the wait.”

She kissed him on his head and they hugged each other. Mother and child, consumed by grief, yet both trying their best to hide the wounds from each other while hopelessly acknowledging the futility of it all.

The marriage was called off in a week’s time.

I slowly wait as my out of body experience returns to the present. The laptop has been shut, the advertisement has been drafted, and my fate has been sealed.

‘For sale! Purple Benarasi. Unworn, Minus the Blouse Piece.’

That was what I had been reduced to - a mere nine words for my bewitching nine yards. I, the one who was meant to be bewitching, had literally become bewitched. I accepted my fate like the bride accepts hers in most Indian homes even today. I was now relegated to a list of things to be gotten rid of; thought of as painful; acknowledged as being useless; and no longer craved for.

He packed me carefully into the box and walked over to the cupboard to put me back to where I belonged, albeit for the time being. Along the way he paused to look at her. Her smile had been frozen into acceptance, while her eyes no longer stared ahead, but somewhere above on the ceiling. For a moment his eyes seemed to get clouded. Maybe it was the presence of the smoke that snaked its way between them. Maybe it was the intoxicating smell of the jasmine flowers that hung in the air with surety. Maybe it was the unrelenting late afternoon sun that refused to see reason and allow dusk to settle in. Maybe it was all of it together or none of them at all…

He slowly walked up to her and touched her face. But the only thing he was met with was a cold gaze and his own reflection in the garlanded portrait of his mother. Mrs. Chatterjee’s worst fears had indeed come true. She had not lived to see her son wed his soul mate.

I still remember the brief conversation he had over the phone call he made to them after coming back from the funeral, “You now believe me, don’t you, that she was indeed unwell?”

They never spoke ever again since that day.

For twelve days and twelve nights a family preparing for a wedding, had to instead arrange for a funeral. On the thirteenth day, as he finally completed his mourning, shaving off his hair and taking a holy dip into the Ganges, he also let go of anything that reminded him of her - her photos, her gifts, and the wedding cards. He took them one by one and tossed them into the river. Seeing them float away, till their individual fates propelled them into the depths of the river, never to rise again.

Since then Anirban was a changed man. He hardly watched television and pretended to completely submerge himself into work instead. Any attempts by zealous family members to find him a suitable match was met with a steely gaze of determination. “Not now” they screamed “Not ever” they snarled.

But somehow he was never quite able to let go of me. Once in a fit of rage, he had almost decided to return me to the Debnath family. But then better sense prevailed and he let me stay. There were nights when he would open the cupboard and stare into my folds, imagining things I couldn’t quite comprehend. There were days he would think of me, suddenly waking me up from my slumber, hoping for a second chance at acquiring new memories, only to let me slip once again to a list of memories he could do without.

Ever since that advertisement had been posted on the internet, he had received curious calls from people. But somehow nothing worked out. It may have been the lack of a matching blouse piece, the disbelief at me remaining unworn, or worse still, a fear about me being a curse they could do without. Whatever it might have been, my fate seemed to hang in the balance for one long day after another.

And then finally he met her. They say it might have been their grief that brought them together. After all, she too had lost a parent recently, and had her marriage broken off for a reason she did not wish to disclose. Maybe it was them being in close proximity with each other, trying to find a foothold in a new project that they had recently joined. Maybe even it was fate themselves, now aided by two guardian angels who wished to try whatever they could to see their children settled. Slowly they dared to accept that they could love each other even as they shared their pain as friends. And one day he brought her home. No, not in the way you might think, not yet! He asked her to wait in the living room as he gently tiptoed towards the cupboard and walked back into the room. She was looking at him intently, watching the package he held in his hands. “Here take this,” he said, gently laying the packet onto the table. “What do you think?”

She slowly slid the lid open, lifted the paraffin paper, and touched me tenderly. And then, she smiled the most beautiful smile there was, for even though it was mixed with pain, it was supported by a hope, bright, alluring, charismatic, and with an assured sense of fulfilment.  She said suddenly lifted her eyes off me and instead settled them straight on his.

“I wish Baba was here” she said. I wish maa had not left, he thought, “for he would have told you something today,” she continued, while he inwardly struggled with the terrifying thumping of his heart. “What would he have said?” he asked nervously, not daring to allow his mind to come up with a possibility this time. “That he completely agrees with your mother’s choice. This indeed is beautiful, and it would be an honour for him to see his daughter, to wear this on our wedding.”

As the two hugged each other, breaking into sobs, I could clearly sense the watchful gaze of a pair of parents completely approving of their alliance, even as I heaved a huge sigh of relief. For her acceptance, once again made me bewitchingly beautiful, like I was always meant to be!