Kiran Sawhney

A beautiful blend of two iconic Indian weaving traditions, this dupatta brings together the richness of a Kanjivaram-inspired border with the vibrant charm of a Patola body. The contrast creates a striking yet graceful look that adds character to any traditional outfit. The Kanjivaram border lends a regal touch with its rich detailing, while the Patola-inspired body brings colour, geometric patterns, and a lively handcrafted appeal. Together, they create a versatile accessory that can instantly elevate a simple kurta, suit, or lehenga. Perfect for festive celebrations, family occasions, and traditional gatherings, this dupatta can be styled in several ways. Its timeless craftsmanship and colourful design make it a beautiful addition to a classic ethnic wardrobe. ✨ Shop directly from our website: 🌐 sohumsutras.com To stay updated with our latest saree collections, product videos, new launches, and exclusive previews, please join our official communities. 📢 Please note: Our previous...

The Cotton Candy Pink Pure Katan Silk Sona Rupa Zari Unstitched Suit Set with Dupatta feels like a delicate memory captured in fabric — a vision that could have once belonged to a royal atelier. Its hue reminds one of blooming lotus petals floating upon a quiet pond at dawn, their soft blush kissed by the first rays of sunlight. The shade carries a sweetness that feels almost edible, like the fleeting melt of spun sugar on the tongue, leaving behind a trace of warmth and wonder. Woven from pure Katan silk, the fabric breathes life into age-old artistry, where each thread of Sona Rupa zari glistens like sunlight caressing temple domes of forgotten kingdoms. It is said that in the courts of celestial beings, such weaves were spun to adorn goddesses — luminous, tender, and ethereal. This suit set echoes that divine charm, where every shimmer feels like an offering to the art of beauty itself. The texture glows with quiet grace, capturing light as if it remembers every golden hour that e...

There exists a hue that feels like it was not dyed, but dreamt—this Dupatta blazes like molten rubies stirred with streaks of ripe pomegranate and flickers of temple flame. Imagine the richness of crushed hibiscus petals left to simmer under a saffron moon, their depth catching light in ways only the gods could have imagined. The colour glows with the intensity of simmering Kashmiri kahwa—warm, layered, and unexpectedly intoxicating. Its waves run wild like river hymns, almost echoing the chants once heard along the Ghats of Varanasi, where time folds and unravels in the lapping water. The paisleys, woven in whispers of gold, curl and zigzag like fire chants written on palm leaves. It feels less like a garment and more like a relic—something you'd expect to see carefully preserved under museum glass, or draped across the shoulders of a queen waiting behind sandalwood doors. This Dupatta could well be the tale of Shalya’s sister—forever wrapped in fire-coloured silk, believed to c...

This Dupatta glistens like molten turmeric mingled with drops of morning honey—its very hue reminiscent of fresh marigold petals offered in temple courtyards, and saffron steeped in sacred rituals. It carries the weight of warmth and wonder, glowing softly yet vividly, as though it has captured the first rays of dawn and decided never to let them go. There is something ancient in the way this fabric moves, something that recalls the corridors of old palaces where queens once draped themselves in silken whispers and left behind a trail of gold-scented stories. It’s not just the colour—it’s the way the golden threads shimmer as if touched by Midas himself. As if this dupatta once lay folded in the trunk of a royal consort, untouched by time, now brought back into the light to sing again. Across the border, floral vines meander like secrets in a palace garden—delicate, dreamlike, and eternal. Each motif seems to fall from the sky, like stardust that took the shape of thread. There’s a q...

There are fabrics that adorn, and then there are fabrics that remember. This Dupatta glows like sandalwood dust mingled with rose ash and faded lotus petals—tones that rise gently like incense in a temple at dawn. Its colour carries the softness of sun-dried fig skin, the quiet richness of aged cloves pressed into antique spice boxes, and the hushed grace of pressed hibiscus left between the pages of an old scripture. It's a palette that doesn’t just stand out—it chants, hums, and gently echoes. Every thread in this dupatta feels steeped in memory, like it has passed through the hands of a temple dancer or rested in the lap of a queen beneath carved marble jharokhas. The motifs ripple like celestial mandalas—drawn not with ink but with devotion—spiralling outward as if in response to a silent mantra. The lower pallu is edged with arches that cradle forms moving like ancient murals in Ajanta, each line a delicate echo of something once sacred. One could imagine this dupatta restin...

This Dupatta burns softly in a coral rose hue, like embers wrapped in silk, kissed by sunset gold. The colour calls to mind the rare Himalayan rhododendron—flushed, vivid, and fleeting—a flower that blooms for just a breath in spring before vanishing into mist. It has the warmth of saffron milk stirred under a twilight sky, the kind served in brass goblets within temple kitchens after long hymns and flickering oil lamps. Its woven medallions do not just decorate; they narrate. These celestial tokens mirror the intricate floor motifs of forgotten shrines, echoing patterns once traced by anklets and sandalwood steps. Like the lotus-mouthed apsaras who once danced in palace courtyards under carved stone ceilings, each motif floats as if carried by a raga only silence remembers. The gold hints stitched into its threads don’t shimmer—they murmur, like sacred verses embroidered into time. Imagine finding this in a museum chest, under lock and story. A piece once gifted to a queen by a poet...

This dupatta carries the quiet glow of sandalwood touched by sunlight. Its hue recalls the delicate dust of crushed cardamom pods—earthy, warm, and deeply familiar. It isn't just a shade but a memory, soft as the petals of dried chamomile, mellow as roasted gram flour in a grandmother’s kitchen, where stories rose like steam and lingered long after the fire was out. The motifs unfold like ancient temple engravings, each pattern echoing tales chiseled into stone over centuries. One might imagine it laid carefully over the shoulders of a queen walking the corridors of a sun-drenched palace courtyard, or placed with reverence in a forgotten wing of a museum—its shimmer still holding the first light that touched it. This dupatta does not shout, it murmurs—of rituals, of hushes before dawn, of gods who walked the earth cloaked in silence and light. What makes this piece unforgettable is its stillness, the kind that belongs in mythology. It feels as if it were spun for an apsara waitin...

This dupatta carries the hush of mountain lakes under monsoon skies. Drenched in a dusky teal that feels like raindrops soaked into ancient stone, it carries the mood of something both celestial and earthy. The shade itself reminds one of dried butterfly pea petals—velvety, twilight-kissed, and steeped in stories. It's a hue that doesn’t shout but stays with you, like the lingering scent of cardamom in a queen’s chamber long after she’s walked past. The silken motifs that bloom across the fabric unfold like enchanted creepers, twisting through time and myth. You can almost imagine them climbing the pillars of some forgotten palace hidden in the folds of a Himalayan valley, kissed by clouds and silence. Each motif feels hand-drawn from memory—perhaps memory not of a person, but of a land that once breathed poetry. The silver vine border that frames it could well have belonged to a celestial nymph, gifted by a weaver-priest in the court of a moon goddess. To drape this dupatta is t...

This dupatta glows like the sky when the first flush of dawn spills across calm waters—a quiet spectacle of light that lives just before the world fully awakens. Dipped in a peach-pink so delicate, it carries the softness of a lotus petal resting on still ponds, or the mellow tint of guava flesh just ripening under the sun. It’s the kind of hue that feels like a memory—familiar, but fleeting—like the warmth of morning sun brushing against old marble corridors. Its weave hums with restrained rhythm, each tiny check flickering like the footfall of anklets inside temple courtyards. These motifs do not shout; they whisper—just as distant bells might sound in a sanctum hidden behind carved stone walls. Along the borders, a trail of soft gold glides like sunlight finding its way through latticed windows of an old haveli, drawing golden patterns on silk that recall the footsteps of queens long gone. This piece carries the spirit of a vintage relic, like something unearthed from a palace che...

There is a certain kind of magic in a hue that recalls the first crush of ripe raspberries between your fingers, or the petal-stained fingertips after plucking hibiscus flowers for morning prayers. This drape captures that exact sensation—rich, deep, and gently tangy on the eye. It holds a shade that feels born of fruit-laden groves and temple gardens, where the air is heavy with incense and devotion. There is nothing ordinary about this colour—it is memory, flavour, and fragrance rolled into cloth. The motifs are not mere patterns; they are sacred maps. Each one feels like a yantra etched by a sage in some forgotten cave, spun now into silk with devotion. The geometry holds rhythm, as if it has been passed down through chants, repeated by priests and dancers alike. The borders are soft murmurs of hymns, echoing the sound of bells and conches from temple corridors. This is a drape that listens more than it speaks, revealing its stories only to those who stop and touch. One might imagin...

There are textiles that clothe the body, and then there are those rare pieces that drape the spirit in stories. This dupatta belongs to the latter. Its tone reminds one of the inner flesh of a rose-apple, that translucent blush touched by first light, neither pink nor berry but something from a realm between fruit and flower. The color glows like guava pulp kissed with sunlight, unfolding in silk like petals opening at dawn. As you hold it, you sense not just fabric, but an entire fable humming softly in your hands. The motifs scattered across the surface recall temple murals and ancient scrolls—where lotuses bloom in quiet clusters beside divine horses mid-stride, and celestial dancers swirl in time with some long-forgotten hymn. Each element seems lifted from the margins of an epic, painted not in mere dye but with something more secret and sacred. The border, deep and lush as crushed berries in monsoon light, holds the centre like a jeweled manuscript—framing the stories in a borde...

There are garments that speak, and then there are those that sing ancient songs. This dupatta is the latter. Born from a wandering breeze that once meandered through a forest where the air was scented with ripe jamuns and the leaves swayed in lullabies of guava pink and gulmohar red, it holds within it the hush of trees and the hush of time. The silk seems to hum, as if it remembers a place where birds once paused mid-flight just to listen. Its colours speak in tones that feel like the edge of a monsoon — like crushed cardamom pods, a hint of smoked clove, and twilight pressed into the folds of basil leaves. It is not one colour, but many — the way peacock feathers shimmer differently depending on which god is watching. Look closely, and you’ll see hints of dried rose petals, tender betel leaf veins, and the hush of a forest at dusk. In another age, this would have rested on the shoulders of a princess who wandered palace courtyards where parrots repeated prayers and mirrors whispere...