I don’t know when, but at some point in my life, I became the kind of person who takes two hours to get ready in the morning. I think I only started doing this when I learned to appreciate the process—when I started seeing my clothes in textures, shapes, and layers rather than how they made my body look. This was when I started wearing my mother’s old clothes. 

I must have been sixteen or seventeen when they started to fit me, and I took to them immediately. It began with loose shirts and wrap-around skirts. They became my staples for beach holidays and lazing around the house. The skirts hugged my curves like a glove and fluttered around my ankles when I moved. They made me feel like I was in an old movie, some heroine who was in a perpetual state of satisfaction. I had pictures of my mother from when she was my age, wearing the same skirts with colorful halter necks, her hair falling loose around her shoulders. The pictures were almost always taken mid-sentence when her face was the most animated. She looked like someone everyone would fall in love with, and I wanted to look just like her. I still do. 

All her clothes were soft—made of light fabrics and earthy colors in traditional Indian patterns. The pants were loose and billowy, or jhabla, as I called them jokingly. But they were the most comfortable pants I owned and by far the most interesting. It wasn’t easy to style all the colors and fabrics, but I pulled it off. Sometimes I would find a top that matched the exact shade of blue in the skirt, or a jacket that ended just above the waistline of the pants. But black tank tops were my best friends, just as they had been hers. I didn’t always wear her clothes out, at least not every day. They were nothing like the yoga pants and graphic t-shirts that had become the standard in Mumbai’s high schools. I wore her clothes mostly at night, as I was alone in my room and could dress them up however I wanted. I didn’t have to worry about what people would think or where they would be looking. I draped myself in dupattas and flowing dresses, all the while dreaming of a day when I could wear those outfits out. I think I only felt comfortable enough to do that when I moved to college. 

For the first time in my life, I was witnessing people wearing exactly what they wanted, no matter the occasion. College is when you figure out who you are, and who you want to be outside of the spaces you grew up in. I wasn’t worried about being overdressed, and all that concerned me was feeling good in the things I wore. Boston wasn’t quite warm enough for Mama’s thin cotton and linens, so whatever clothing of hers I couldn’t wear, I made up for with jewelry. Her earrings were my favorite, with intricate patterns of brass and silver that I could pair with any outfit. There were the ones with the tear-drop pearls, that I wore with anything soft or light. There were the dangly hoops with the brass beads that I wore to accentuate my neck. There was the silver choker with the black stone that I only wore with her thick silver hoops. I switched around between a dozen pieces, day in and day out. So every time someone would stop me and tell me they liked my earrings or necklace or rings, I’d reply, Thank you, I got it from my mother. It felt good to carry something of hers with me wherever I went. They were like little pieces of home that reminded me who I was, even in this foreign country. My mother, with her clothes and style, was a part of me. I became proud of that and realized there was no reason to hide it. 

When I went back home over the summer I wore the things that made me happy. I also bought things that made my mother feel I was turning into her. You’re becoming exactly like me, she’d tell me. I’d laugh and say, rubbish. But I knew it was true. She started gifting me the kind of jewelry she would have worn herself. Even when she bought things that were meant for her, she would offer them to me first. We’d sit together on her bed as she laid out everything from the locked drawer in her cupboard, her tijori. All the gold and silver and pearls she’d amassed from years long before I was born. When I picked out the things I liked, she’d smile and point out the ones that had belonged to my great-grandmother. From everything Mama and my Nani had told me, I would have loved her. She coordinated everything, from her slippers to her Sari to her nail polish. According to everyone, she had been iconic. One of my most prized possessions is my great-grandmother’s silk robe. It’s beautiful and dramatic, just as she had been. Every time I wear it, I channel the generations of women who made me who I am. What’s mine is yours only, Jaan, says my mother whenever I ask to take something. Who else will everything go to?

When I’m in Boston I Facetime her in the mornings while getting ready for my classes. She watches as I assemble my outfits and then hold up different pairs of earrings to my face. Which ones? I ask, unable to decide between the turquoise stones or the purple beads. She tells me to wear the blue as I begin to spot concealing my face. I explain my routine to her, finishing my eyes with the kajal I stole from her. She laughs and once again tells me, That is exactly what I was like.