There is a certain shade found at the core of nature’s poetry—the hue of freshly crushed basil held in the palm, or the cool richness of a cardamom pod when split open. That is the colour this saree wears, drawn from forest groves and temple offerings, from garden shadows and rain-fed leaves. It is not just green—it is memory. The kind that settles quietly on your shoulder and lingers like incense smoke in a sanctum.
What makes this saree more than fabric is the way it spins a myth. The embroidered birds gliding across its body are reminiscent of Garuda—the divine carrier of Vishnu—here appearing not in grandeur, but in quiet flight, as though delivering forgotten stories from a time before time. These are no ordinary birds. They are stitched with the silence of sages and the shimmer of cosmic dust. Their wings float over circular motifs that hint at celestial maps, the kind that might be carved into the stone floor of an ancient observatory or painted onto a ceiling inside a forgotten palace.
The border glows with the careful gleam of moon-kissed jasmine vines, as if the saree once belonged to a queen who wandered moonlit courtyards with bare feet and sandalwood perfume trailing behind her. You can almost hear the anklets in the silence of its folds. This piece doesn’t just belong in your wardrobe—it belongs behind museum glass or inside the pages of an epic. Yet, it waits, humbly, to be worn again.
To own this saree is to hold a passageway to older worlds. It’s a whisper from forests where every leaf remembers, and every feather tells.
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