"The Dresses I Never Wore"

 

"The Dresses I Never Wore"

In the golden light of her mother’s courtyard, Zara once stood surrounded by dreams stitched into fabric—crimson chiffons, turquoise silks, embroidery kissed by zari and sequins. Her dowry trunk was filled not just with clothes, but with hopes. Each outfit whispered stories she had imagined: candlelit dinners, Eid mornings with hennaed hands, laughter in front of the mirror as her husband looked at her in awe.

But those dreams were locked away the day she crossed the threshold into her new home.

Her mother-in-law, with eyes like sharp thorns and a tongue dipped in vinegar, eyed the trunk with disgust. “All these colors? These shiny things? You’ll look like a dancer,” she spat. Zara blinked, stunned. Her husband said nothing—just stared at his phone like her pain was background noise.

Soon, her wardrobe became a museum of dreams—untouched, gathering dust in a metal almirah. Her mother-in-law insisted she wear old, oversized clothes that smelled of camphor and bitterness. “We don’t waste money here. Your husband won’t spend a single rupee on your foolishness,” she declared, when Zara once requested a compact powder worth 2200 rupees.

Eid-ul-Adha arrived like a cruel joke. “Wear something from your dowry. Why should my son buy you a dress?” she snapped. Zara longed to wear the emerald green outfit she had stitched just for this day, but it remained folded and forgotten. She served guests in faded lawn, her heart a knot of silenced screams.

Zara wasn’t allowed to wear jewelry either. Her gold bangles? Called vulgar. Her red lipstick? “You look like a call girl,” her mother-in-law sneered. Perfume? “Who are you trying to attract?” Every time Zara tried to be herself, she was slapped back into submission with shame and suspicion.

Even bathing became an act of rebellion.

“You don’t need to use body wash. Soap is a waste.”
“Ask my son before shaving. You need permission.”
“Don’t open your hair. It tempts men.”

Zara would stand in the bathroom, water running over her skin like a stolen freedom. Sometimes she wept quietly, the scent of soap her only comfort, a small act of resistance in a house where even breathing felt monitored.

She had entered marriage with dreams of love, respect, of being a queen in her own story. Instead, she became a prisoner in a house where femininity was punished and silence was survival.

But one day, she broke.

She walked out—not just of the house, but out of fear. Out of shame. Out of the lies that told her she was less than she was.

Now, in her mother’s home again, she gets 5–6 dresses stitched every month. Bright colors, bold patterns, and custom fits. Her hair flows down her back, her skin glows with care, her body dances with freedom. She wears her red lipstick with pride and spritzes her favorite perfume not for anyone else—but because she loves it.

The woman who once asked permission to be clean, to be seen, to be her, now writes her own rules.

She is no longer the girl who folded her dreams away in a trunk.

She is the woman who wears them.