The Colour of Light
My engagement ceremony was to be held at my grandmother’s house, in her garden under the old chikoo tree. She insisted on twilight, that magical hour when the sun softens and the fairy lights begin to twinkle. “You must wear the colour of this light,” she said, her voice as thin and firm as parchment. I knew exactly what she meant. Not white, which could feel stark, but cream. The warm, gentle cream of sandalwood and early stars. I pictured something that would glow from within as the day faded—a cream sherwani gown with kurta pajama. It felt like a risk. Would it be impactful enough? My father, seeing my sketches, simply drove me across town. “This is a question for Arshad Mens Wear,” he said. “They understand light and cloth.”
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Where Fabric Holds a Conversation
The bell above the door at Arshad Mens Wear doesn’t just tinkle; it announces you’ve entered a different kind of space. It’s hushed, a library of textures. I was met by Mr. Arshad’s son, Kamran, whose hands were already dusted with a fine, golden thread. I spoke of twilight and my grandmother’s wish. His eyes lit up. “Cream is not a colour you wear,” he said, leading me to a back room. “It is a colour you illuminate.” He pulled out three bolts, all cream, but each a different song. One was a cool ivory silk. Another, a warm, heavy raw silk. The third was a cream maashru silk with a faint, woven sheen that caught the light like a pearl. “This one,” I said, touching the maashru. “It holds the light.”
Sculpting with Shadow and Form
Kamran nodded. “Good. Now we must give it shape. A cream gown in twilight needs architecture, or it will disappear.” We spread the glorious fabric on a vast cutting table. He explained that for a colour so soft, the cut must be precise and bold. We decided on a streamlined gown silhouette, the flare starting at the ribs to create a strong, column-like shape. The neck would be a deep, structured sherwani collar. For the kurta pajama underneath, he suggested a shade just a whisper darker—a pale café latte silk. “It will give a subtle shadow, a sense of depth,” he said. “So you don’t look like you’re floating away.” This was their genius: using shade within a single colour family to create dimension and presence.
The Alchemy of Embellishment: Threads of Gold and Sunlight
This was the heart of the magic. How do you embroider cream on cream? Kamran brought out a wooden box. Inside were threads of every gold imaginable: bright zardozi gold, soft matte mustard gold, and a delicate thread the colour of hay. “We will not fight the fabric,” he said. “We will collaborate with it.” We chose a delicate parsi gara inspired pattern, using the matte mustard and hay-coloured threads. The embroidery would be sparse—trailing down the collar and along the placket in a gentle, organic vine. The buttons would be carved sandalwood. The effect would be subtle, a pattern that appeared only when someone drew close, like discovering gold leaf on an ancient manuscript. It would make the wearer a treasure to be discovered.
The First Fitting: Becoming a Statue of Light
A week later, I stood for my first fitting. The gown was in a ‘toile’ of rough, unbleached cotton, a ghost of the final garment. Yet, even in this form, the silhouette was transformative. The master tailor, Ustad ji, padded around me with a mouthful of pins. He didn’t speak, but his hands were eloquent. He’d tug at a shoulder seam, pinch excess fabric at the small of my back. Kamran translated: “He says the gown must fall like water from your shoulders, not cling like a vine.” I looked in the full-length mirror and saw a stranger—calmer, taller, composed. The rough cream cotton made me look like a sculptor’s model, waiting for the final finish. It was an extraordinary feeling of potential.
Twilight, Transformed
The evening of the engagement, dressing was a quiet ritual. The café latte kurta pajama was cool and soft. Then, the cream gown. It slipped on, heavy and cool, and settled with a profound sense of rightness. In my grandmother’s garden, as the sky turned lavender, I felt it happen. The cream fabric began to glow, catching the last of the sun and the first of the fairy lights. The subtle gold threadwork sparked softly with every movement. I wasn’t the loudest thing in the garden, but I was the focal point. My grandmother took my hand, her eyes bright. “You look like a prince from a story,” she said. “The quiet one who wins everything.” The hadn’t just dressed me; it had given me a grace I didn’t know I possessed.
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