Many of my mother's saris are old and valuable, worn by women in her family for generations, so I have to pilfer carefully. While she loves my newfound appreciation for saris, I'm not supposed to take any without her permission. Besides, some of them actually belong to my grandmother, who doesn't know my mother has them (apparently, sneaking saris runs in the family). My mother has no idea how many saris hang in her closet, but she knows when I've been looking through them. I leave no traces, but she is omnipotent and can sense a disturbance in the force.
I grew older and things changed. As a teenager, I hated the brightly colored mirrored tunics created especially for me with good intentions by relatives I'd never met. I refused to wear them, or anything else that marked me as "different." A sari was out of the question. I was different enough already: I couldn't wear be rib boned barrettes in my kinky-curly hair, my eyes weren't blue, and I wasn't allowed to wear makeup. I adhered rigidly to the code of 1980s prep-school chic: Tretorn sneakers; baggy sweaters in pale pastels; turtlenecks with the necks carefully scrunched down.