Saree Struggles: A Diwali tradition of laughter and panic

Every Diwali, without fail, I end up in a wrestling match with six yards of fabric.

Even if I have no party to attend and it’s just me and a few friends lighting fireworks, I have to wear a saree. It’s not Diwali unless I’m wrapped in one and mildly panicking.

Over the years, I’ve exhausted every saree my mother-in-law ever gifted me or let me keep because I admired it. She doesn’t go out much or attend many functions anymore, so she’s happy to see them being used. She loves sarees, really loves them. She’ll happily browse exhibitions, pick up pieces from different states, and always find a reason to add “just one more” to her collection. She’s prudent with spending otherwise, but when it comes to an exquisite silk or a crisp cotton saree, she never thinks twice.

My problem isn’t owning sarees. It’s draping them. I’ve seen my mum do it all my life — fold, pleat, tuck, and swirl in under three minutes. No mirrors, no safety pins, no panic. Meanwhile, I’ve spent hours watching YouTube tutorials with names like Saree Draping for Dummies and Saree in 60 Seconds (Yeah right!). I’ve even had a colleague (now ex-colleague) at work, an absolute saree pro, patiently guide me through the steps in the office restroom. I remember nodding like a student taking notes, convinced I’d got it this time. Spoiler: I did not. I never do.

I have a Bengali colleague who genuinely loves sarees. She wears them twice a year, once for Durga Puja and once for Diwali. I manage it only once, during Diwali. We often end up chatting about fabrics and colours, and when she hears about my struggles, she says, “You have to watch this woman on Instagram; she makes it look so easy!” She means Dolly Jain, of course, the undisputed queen of pleats. Jain can drape a saree in 30 seconds flat while smiling serenely at the camera. I’ve watched those reels. I’ve paused, zoomed in, replayed. She is grace personified, while I resemble a decorative burrito.

Last year, in a burst of misguided optimism, I ordered a pre-stitched saree online at the last minute. I thought it would be foolproof; It wasn’t. The thing came with hidden zippers, secret hooks, and a waistband that could double as a Rubik’s cube. I tried it twice, nearly twisted a shoulder, and gave up. I ended up wearing a salwar suit that night and sulked like someone who’d flunked an exam.

Here’s the thing though. When everything finally comes together, even for a fleeting moment, it’s worth it. There’s this magical instant when the pleats fall right and the pallu drapes perfectly. I stand a little taller, look in the mirror and think, “Ah, so this is what all the fuss is about.” My mood lifts, and for a few glorious minutes I feel like I’ve unlocked a secret code handed down generations. Five minutes later, of course, the pleats start rebelling, the safety pin stabs me, and gravity takes over.

Nevertheless, every Diwali, I try again. There’s something about a saree — it feels like a small victory when it works, a full-scale disaster when it doesn’t.

Maybe that’s my version of tradition. Some people light diyas; I spark chaos. Some spread joy; I cover the floor with fabric, battling with YouTube videos and safety pins. But every year, I end up laughing at myself, and somehow, that feels like the most festive thing of all.

This year, I’m still clueless about which saree to wear, but one thing’s certain, I’ll drape it, somehow.