When the sky borrowed colours from a celestial garden and the winds whispered stories in brushstrokes, this dress was born—aptly named When Forests Dream and Flowers Speak. Its hue recalls the tender heart of a cardamom pod just split open—green, with a whisper of gold and a breath of forest. It is not just a colour; it is the fragrance of forgotten woods and the quiet hush of rain-drenched leaves, pressed between pages of an old diary.
This dress looks as though it was lifted from the lap of a woodland goddess. Imagine a queen from an ancient epic, wandering through the palace gardens under a twilight sky, her drape trailing over stone corridors echoing with chants and sandalwood. The weave feels like a song from the past—one you’ve never heard before, yet somehow remember. Its wildflower motifs seem to have bloomed directly onto the fabric, fed by whispers of butterflies and birds.
In another lifetime, it might have been part of a Maharani’s trousseau, kept locked away in a sandalwood chest, only brought out for the most sacred rituals or moonlit poetry gatherings. One could just as easily see it resting inside a textile museum, its craftsmanship speaking for an age that honoured art above all. It holds the weight of memory, myth, and meadow all at once—a soft, rare balance that only a few textiles in the world ever achieve.
This dress is not an accessory, but an inheritance. It belongs in collections that honour both nature and legacy. Each thread seems to carry the lullaby of ancient winds and the shimmer of temples lost in vines. Wearing it feels like retelling a story—one that never quite ends.
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