Kashmiri embroidered kurta

She didn't choose the kurta for an occasion that day-

she chose it for a feeling.

The deep emerald fabric had a way of holding sunlight gently,

as if every thread remembered the first dawn it was dyed under.

The embroidery-peach and gold vines curling like shy whispers-felt less like a design and more like a memory stitched by someone who understood softness.

It was one of those slow mornings where time moved like warm honey.

She sat by the window, curls catching bits of light,

holding a cool glass of water as if grounding herself back into her body.

The world outside was loud, but herein this calm corner-the kurta became her cocoon,

a quiet companion in a moment of peace.

The floral motifs reminded her of the gardens she used to play in,

the ones with overgrown marigolds and sun-drunk leaves.

Wearing it felt like slipping into a story she'd paused long ago-

a story of gentle femininity, unhurried rhythms, and the quiet luxury of choosing comfort without losing grace.

And for a brief moment, as the embroidery glowed in the sun

and her rings caught a faint glimmer, she felt like she was exactly where she needed to be-rooted, soft, beautiful, and entirely her own.