Shruti Goel

Zari

The gauzy wedding mandaps, laden by the sea, shimmered like they would in a glossy magazine. The sunlight bounced off every metallic surface possible—bangles, chair backs, even the goddamn cocktail stirrers. I squinted my eyes, pulling my dupatta—what my nieces call a “Scandinavian scarf”—over my head.  The cold glass of orange juice sweated against my fingers.

Then I saw it—my niece stepping out from the pool.

Water rolled off her bikini, its fabric so fine it could have been cut from the sarees I grew up seeing locked behind glass. Zari ivied around the rani-pink stretch, just like the golden threads in my mother’s Banarasi wedding saree.

Zari.

On a swimsuit.

I remember the first time I touched zari, reaching into my mother’s trunk. She snatched my hand away.

“This is for the in-laws to see. Not for your games. This is our share.”

Of course, it was tied to inheritance. Each golden thread carried capital.

Zari had never belonged to sunlight. It belonged to trunks—folded and worshipped. To ceremonies and unmistakably to women who lowered their eyes so the brocade could speak on their behalf. It carried a cold, hard status—the only visible wealth one controlled.

It wasn’t long before the weight of that same thread travelled onto my own body when I was old enough to inherit my mother’s trousseau.

Soon as I laid my hands on it, I didn’t intend to let the zari rot in my shoebox of an almirah, waiting for the world’s approval to wear it while looking down at the tiles I walked on. So I took the scissors and snipped the sleeves off. I remember how Bollywood featured chic sleeveless blouses in Karan Johar films. I wanted one too. So I made mine, embellishing it with gota patti and lace.

A twirl before the mirror sent the saree rippling around my feet while the square-neck brocade blouse held me like a corset top in those old period dramas on my DVD stack.

The room echoed with the chime of my bangles, met by the footsteps I’d been waiting for.

I turned around, barely able to contain my smile, “How do I look?” I looked spectacular, and I knew it.

“Do you need to be reminded you’re married?” he said, eyes flicking away as if the zari stung them. “Cheap woman.”

For a second, I just stood there, the fabric still warm against my skin, his words hanging in the air heavier than the brocade. It looked cheap?

I straightened the pleats anyway, more out of instinct than agreement. But the mirror behind me didn’t flinch. It showed a woman who had put effort into looking like herself.

I didn’t change.

Of course I didn’t.

I silently followed him out the door and all the way into the ceremony. His hand clamped around my arm, fingers dug deep enough that I knew I’d see the marks later.

I kept walking anyway.

Walking down the mirrored aisle, I caught a fractured glimpse of myself. The blouse glinted defiantly, its gold threads curled like wildfire across my skin. Men pretended not to stare. Though their eyes went to my neckline first, then straight to him with the classic ‘handle your woman’ glance. The same men who’d pay a premium to get a woman just as ‘cheap’ in a hidden room.

I felt my husband’s jaw tighten beside me. The muscle near his temple twitched the same way when bills came higher than he expected.

Women’s gazes were sharper, layered, like some tasting secondhand freedom; meaner in others, with a little twist of the mouth they pretended was concern.

I smiled at each of them anyway.

The grip tightened each time someone’s gaze lingered a second too long. At first, it was just pressure. Then heat. Then pain. By the time we’d made the rounds with endless greetings and nodding, my arm felt like it belonged to someone else.

Then suddenly his hand let go.

The blood rushed back in a hot wave, pins and needles exploding under the skin. I sucked in a breath, unable to stop it.

Only when I reached a corner—away from the circle of eyes and smiles—did I glance down.

The imprint of his fingers flared red across my swollen skin. But what shocked me more was the pattern above it: the zari. The gold thread from my blouse had pressed so hard against my arm that it had left its tiny floral motifs etched onto my flesh like an accusation.

I don’t know how long I stared at it, counting the flowers on my skin instead of the marigold garlands in the background. The shehnai carried on from afar, unaware.

Soon as we reached home, I peeled off the blouse. Before the hooks snapped open, the zari caught the light one last time. It was never meant to be mine, even though the thread came from my mother’s trousseau.

The brocade glared back at me. I didn’t fold it. I didn’t place it carefully in the trunk like my mother had taught me. I ripped it. The seam tore first, then the padded cotton, then the brocade itself, splitting open like a fruit too ripe to hold its shape.

The blouse went into the bin.

I stood at the sink with Boroline on my fingers, massaging it gently onto the throbbing red patterns left on my arm. The minty scent rose up, cool and medicinal, but nothing about the moment soothed me.

Because the zari didn’t shimmer anymore.

Quite the opposite of  how it was gleaming across the pool now—loud and unapologetic.

The tassels of the girl’s bikini jingled as she plopped down beside me, breathless from swimming. She swept on her sheer sarong just as two men wandered past, slow enough to make their interest obvious.

“Oh my god, Auntie,” she said, tugging at its tassel, “don’t start. I know it’s extra.”

I blinked. “I wasn’t saying anything.”

“You don’t have to,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You have that look.”

She yanked the knot of her sarong higher. “Like I’m wearing patriarchy on my waist or something.”

“More like its aftermath.” I reached over, fixing the tangled strand in one clean pull.

 “Whatever. It’s fashion,” she retorted.

“A lot more than that, I promise.”

Shruti Goel is a marketing graduate from the University of Calcutta and a Curtis Brown Creative alum. Her words have found a home in Grazia, Lifestyle Asia, and Femina, as well as in TEDx talks, a co-authored Scholastic anthology, and her self-published poetry chapbook Flawed Pages. Beyond the page, Shruti has worked as a restaurant consultant in the food and beverage industry, where campaigns, cuisines, and on-ground conversations shaped the distinct voice she brings to her writing today.