My Grandma Wore Linen Before It Was Cool

A visual essay on wear, ritual, and memory.

- MANASVI POTE

WHAT WAS FOLDED, STAYED FELT

Every morning in my grandmother's house began with the rustle of fabric. She would lift a linen sari from the chair, still carrying the heat of the iron, and fold it neatly before the day started. The room smelled of rose powder and starch mixed with the faint scent of coconut oil from her hair. Her clothes grew softer with each wash, the edges fraying just enough to show use, not neglect. Inside the wooden cupboard, every fold seemed to hold a trace of her patience, the way years of small, careful gestures can turn routine into devotion.

SOFTNESS IS THE NEW STATUS SYMBOL