Finding Myself in My Mother-In-Law's Saris
My mother's judgment hindered me, but my mother-in-law's approval helps me be the best version of myself
My mother-in-law, Elaine, has, I'd guess, 25 or 30 saris. They hang on hangers in her closet, protected under dry cleaning plastic, matching blouses laid carefully over yards of folded silk.
Every day, the Google Nest in our kitchen serves up photos of Elaine in her saris: at weddings, on trips to India. In every photo, her dark hair and dark eyes are transformed by the saris wrapped around her body, and it looks, to me at least, like she could have lived her whole life in India, instead of growing up in Billings, Montana, the white daughter of sugar beet farmers.
When Kamal and I were married, his cousin and uncle sent me a red wedding sari as a gift. In the Hindu religion, red symbolizes new beginnings, and Mars, the red planet, rules marriage. The wedding sari is formal and heavy, beautiful but I don't feel beautiful in it; the bright color overpowers my pink complexion.
When Kamal and I were married, his cousin and uncle sent me a red wedding sari as a gift.
My mom liked to think I look good in red. I know the kind of woman she thought she saw when she thought of me: dark brown hair, ruby lipstick, features confident and natural. Probably French. So many of her gifts were red clothes — always in shades that looked terrible on me. I could never understand it — my mom's own physical beauty and carefully studied style were legendary.
After her death when I was 37, my sister and I divided her personal effects: books, family letters, jewelry, handbags. My mom's designer shoes were a size too small for my sister but only half a size smaller than my own feet, and I wore her tight heels to work for the next two years. I'd spent so much of my life feeling uncomfortable in my own skin, trying to live in hers. But boy, those shoes were gorgeous.
A Blending of Cultures
Kamal's dad, Raj, died more recently, after 56 years of marriage to Elaine, most of that time spent in New Jersey, outside Princeton. When Raj left India for UC Berkeley in his early twenties, his parents warned him against falling in love with an American because they feared losing him. And in many ways, they did lose him; he never moved back home.
In their decades together, Raj and Elaine blended cultures: Raj, an Indian man, in a cowboy hat riding high on a combine tractor; Elaine, a white American, cooking tandoori chicken or wearing those saris, loving gifts from Raj's parents.
My Rochester-born, Episcopalian-raised mom also blended cultures with her husbands. First, married to my dad who'd escaped Communist Poland in 1970. They lived in Boston's North End, embraced all things European, especially food and fashion. Then, with my Canadian stepfather and his Jewish family, she shopped with her mother-in-law and sisters-in-law at some of Montreal's most stylish department stores, dressed for Passover seders, started wearing wide-brimmed hats.
My mom had a keen eye. She knew how to dress, and she had an intuitive appreciation for how women, including women from cultures different from her own, express beauty. But somehow, she couldn't see me clearly.
Once, when visiting her and my stepfather in Rhode Island in my mid-twenties, we went to a restaurant on the water. "That shirt would look gorgeous on you," she said about our waitress's crimson blouse.
The waitress and I didn't look anything alike, except for our youth and brown hair. For the first time it occurred to me that my mom's desire for how she wished I looked somehow distorted what she saw. And her disappointment in my appearance — the disappointment I read from her actions, from how she tried to change me — was confounded by an insistence on a reality that wasn't there.
Why was she so blind to what made me beautiful?
A Collection of Cherished Saris
Gathering the family in New Jersey at Christmas toward the end of my father-in-law Raj's life, Elaine told my nieces to pick one or two saris to keep. Those saris were deeply cherished: a physical connection to Raj's home culture, to Elaine's adopted culture. All of us — children, children-in-law, grandchildren — have a relationship to those saris.
I didn't know it at the time, but the sari I felt best in had been one of Kamal's grandmother's favorites. It had been passed on to Elaine, and now to me.
Embarrassed, I asked if I could choose one, too; I'd wanted a sari of hers for so long. She said, "Goodness, of course, Milena!" as if maybe she hadn't realized that I didn't already have several at home. We pulled the saris from Elaine's closet and piled them on the bed, lifting the plastic to see the colors more clearly.
The silks were blue and turquoise, brown and green, purple with silver embroidery and glass beads. Elaine has a dark navy sari she wore to a Chicago wedding we all attended years ago. The first part of the wedding took place in a church; that evening, however, the couple put on a full Indian ceremony, complete with a Bollywood-style dance. The Indian groom clapped and stomped, the American bride flirted, twitching her shoulders. Before the evening ceremony, Elaine and an Indian cousin spent an hour in the bridal suite, helping the bride and her American bridesmaids wrap their saris.
That Christmas in New Jersey, our niece Macy, a high schooler, picked out an ombré design where hot pink blended into bright orange, and a wide border of gold thread followed the length of the silk. It was a striking garment, one my mom wouldn't have shied from. When Elaine added a pink and gold bindi to Macy's forehead, I was overcome with emotion; she was stunning.
I chose something more subdued: browns, blues, whites, rose. A dark blue blouse with a simple neckline. I didn't know it at the time, but the sari I felt best in had been one of Kamal's grandmother's favorites. It had been passed on to Elaine, and now to me.
Macy and I wore our saris downstairs to pose for the family, and Raj took our photo. My hair was in a junky twist, new bifocals on my face. Standing for photos, I was not breathtaking like Macy, or my mom, but I felt good.
Kamal's family has always made me feel good. Elaine didn't tell me to pick one of her most beautiful saris, the bright colors sure to swallow me up; she looked through them with me, helped me dress with care, didn't even comment on how my choice did or didn't make me look.
When I see the photos from that night, which flip through the Nest every now and then, I like seeing my glasses, my hair pulled back. Macy is the star. I am her aunt. I'm happy for both of us.
Ironically, I've never felt more stylish; I've also never been truer to myself.
It's difficult to accept and move past a parent's disappointment. Twelve years after my mom died, I don't find myself thinking about her in generous terms, remembering the ways she loved me. She was kind and generous to the world, but to me, I felt her judgment. What pains me most as I continue my relationship with her even after she's gone is the uncertainty that she ever really saw me. And I wonder how well I saw her.
I have more time, and a bit of distance, to appreciate my mother-in-law. And the assurance that comes from knowing she loves me just as I am.
'Just As I Am'
After Raj's death, Elaine and Kamal and his sister wrapped his body in a plain cotton sari to prepare for cremation. My final image of my mom is at a funeral home, covered in a white sheet to her neck, bruises on her chin and nose related to death. Her face is free of makeup; the face I knew in the early mornings or right before bed, when it was just us at home, no outside world to dress for.
With Raj gone, it's not clear who will wear Elaine's saris next. And to what occasions. There are no trips to India on the horizon. When we're not together in New Jersey, Elaine spends her holidays in Montana.
I recently wore one of my mom's dresses for the first time. It's light and airy, silk organza. The bodice gathers around a large petaled flower, and the skirt hangs long and layered, like the folds of a sari. After Raj died, I stopped dying my hair brown, and what grew in its place is platinum white; Elaine was one of my earliest cheerleaders, calling the result "frosted," which makes me laugh. Ironically, I've never felt more stylish; I've also never been truer to myself.
The white hair has completely changed my complexion; I've had to adjust the makeup I wear. The colors of my clothes have changed, too.
My mom's dress is red. In it, I'm stunning. As my mom would have said, "I'll be damned." She somehow knew it all along.