A saree at the Taj, and the gentle strength of women together

Time of India

a day ago

Barsha Nag Bhowmick has an opinion on anything and everything. A scribe for more than two decades, she writes on various topics including art, literature, relationships, lifestyle and anything that arouses her interest from time to time. When not into writing, she paints. Follow @barshanag on Twitter LESS ... MORE
Sometimes, it isn't grand gestures or sweeping speeches that remind you of the world's beauty. It's something small, unexpected, and full of grace… like a pair of helping hands appearing at just the right moment.
Earlier this month, at the Taj Mahal in Agra, two Italian women found themselves in a fix. On their first visit to the monument, they had chosen to drape themselves in sarees. Perhaps drawn to the elegance of this six-yard wonder, perhaps wanting to step into the story, the Taj whispers into the Yamuna breeze. But somewhere between the marble arches and the warm, sunlit pathways, the folds came loose. A saree unravelling in a public place is not just about fabric. It's about that sudden vulnerability, the awkward shuffling, and the quiet panic that shows in your eyes.
That's when a woman constable on duty noticed. She didn't just glance and move on. She walked towards them, steady and sure. The crisp uniform gave her an air of authority. But her smile softened it instantly. In the now-viral clip, she bends down a little, showing them how to tuck the pleats in. One fold, then another. Her hands move with the ease of someone who grew up around sarees. Not just wearing them, but understanding them as a piece of heritage.
The women listened like eager students, smiling in relief. Their awkwardness dissolving into shared laughter. They thanked her warmly, but perhaps what they took back with them was more than the lesson in how to pleat a saree.
It was a lesson in how women, complete strangers even, often hold each other up without ceremony or fuss. In that moment or short exchange, the constable wasn't just a police officer. She was a bit of a teacher, maybe even a sister. And just another woman making sure someone else could straighten her back, fix her pleats, and walk on with confidence.
In India, we often say Atithi Devo Bhava, the guest is divine. But here, the welcome wasn't in formal words or official arrangements. It was in the human touch, the readiness to help, the unspoken understanding that dignity matters as much as beauty.
This kind of quiet, unspoken solidarity reminds me of something that happened to me once. Not in some grand place like the Taj Mahal. Just an everyday moment that's stayed with me. It was during a routine, ordinary trip to a departmental store. The kind where the aisles feel too full… bottles of vindaloo sauce balanced next to eggs and all sorts of things you didn't plan to buy.
Somewhere in that rush, I realised my hands were aching under the weight of the bags. Every new item felt heavier than it should have. That's when I saw her. An elderly woman in a violet salwar kameez. She must have noticed the way I was shifting from one hand to the other, because she stepped in without a word and simply… took over. She gently rearranged the bags I was holding, carefully tucking things into place. 'Are you okay?' she asked at least thrice, her voice calm. 'Aur kuch arrange karna hai?'
I felt a gentle warmth spread through me. The kind that settles in before you even notice it. That small act of kindness seemed to make everything a little lighter. Before I could say a word, she was gone. I stood there, bags pulling at my fingers, scanning the flow of people for her face. Nothing. She had already disappeared into the steady shuffle of feet and the low hum of voices around me.
That day, like at the Taj, I was reminded that kindness doesn't always come wrapped in speeches or smiles for the camera. Sometimes it slips past you quietly, asking for nothing, and yet it stays with you, like the faint warmth in your palms after holding someone's hand.
In both instances, women, whether in uniform or salwar kameez… stepped in, holding each other up in the smallest yet most significant ways. They showed me that helping hands don't need to be loud. Their presence doesn't demand attention, but it certainly deserves gratitude. These moments of connection, whether at the Taj Mahal or in a grocery store aisle, serve as quiet reminders that, at the heart of it all, we are all in this together.
And isn't that what makes such moments unforgettable? When women come together, they weave something quiet yet powerful. They make the world softer, not weaker. They offer help not from pity, but from instinct. The instinct to see, to step in, to care.
That day at the Taj, a saree was saved from slipping, yes. But something more precious was held together: the thread of kindness that can bind strangers across cultures, languages, and continents.
And in the grocery store, a few bags got a little lighter, yes. More than that, something else eased, the quiet sense that even in a crowd of strangers, someone might notice, someone might help. It wasn't grand, but it was enough to make the day feel softer. These are the moments that remind us that the world, for all its noise, still holds its gentle music.
Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer
Views expressed above are the author's own.