Why the Sari

[fusion_builder_container hundred_percent=”yes” overflow=”visible”][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type=”1_1″ layout=”1_1″ last=”yes” spacing=”yes” center_content=”no” hide_on_mobile=”no” background_color=”” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” background_position=”left top” hover_type=”none” link=”” border_position=”all” border_size=”0px” border_color=”” border_style=”” padding=”” margin_top=”” margin_bottom=”” animation_type=”” animation_direction=”” animation_speed=”0.1″ animation_offset=”” class=”” id=”” min_height=””][fusion_text] Playing house as little girls often do, I have the fondest childhood memories of sneaking into my mother’s freshly washed and ironed pile of saris, all the while trying to fathom how I would drape six yards of fabric around my little frame, in an effort to mirror what I saw as being quintessential woman. Cousin sisters would often come to my rescue by haphazardly tucking and pinning where possible to