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| Image By Subhasri Devaraj (Author) |
Now I Know What She Meant.
It was tucked at the very back of the shelf. Wrapped in that crinkly plastic cover. Neatly folded. Crisp. Brand new.
A deep royal blue saree with the kind of golden border Amma always liked.
But this one? I’d never seen her wear it.
She bought it years ago. I remember asking her, “When will you wear this one?”
And she smiled, the way mothers do when they know more than they say.
“Later,” she said. “It’s for later.”
I didn’t understand it then. Just thought she was saving it for some function or festival that never came.
But today…
Today I opened her cupboard — not to clean it, but because I missed her.
Missed her jasmine-oil scent. Her bangles. Her soft cotton pallu that always smelled like Vibhuti and warmth.
And there it was.
Still untouched. Still smelling like her.
I wore it today. The first time it’s ever been worn.
Same temple. Same steps she once walked.
And for one quiet moment…
I swear I felt her beside me.
Like she was waiting all along — not to wear it herself,
but for me to grow into the woman she raised me to be.
Some sarees aren’t meant to be worn.
They’re meant to be passed on.
Not just as fabric…
But as memory.
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🧠 Disclaimer:
✋ No AI Here:
This blog post was written 100% by me, Subhasri Devaraj, without the use of AI writing tools.
Every word is real, personal, and written from scratch — just like a proper conversation over filter coffee. ☕
No bots. No auto-generated fluff. Just me, talking to you
⚠️ No content here is copied or auto-published. I don't post anything I wouldn’t say to a friend.
📌 Copyright © 2025 — Subhasri Devaraj | The Heartlogue
All rights reserved. Please do not copy, republish, or reprint without permission
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