About House of Uma Legacy Co.

I'm Mohna. I grew up watching my mother, Uma, drape her saris.

She was Bengali. For us, festivals weren't just dates on a calendar. They were reasons to wear color. To feel fabric between your fingers. To spend hours at the sari shop, pulling out one after another until you found the one.

My mother had this gift. She'd touch a weave and just know. "This zari is too much." "This blue will glow under the lights." "This one—this one tells a story."

I didn't understand it then. I just stood there, a little girl in awe, watching her speak the language of six yards.

That's where my love for saris began. In those moments. Watching her.

My mother got sick. Cancer.

She asked me one day, hope still in her voice: "Will I be able to go to Durga Puja this year?"

I'd already bought saris for her. Three of them. I imagined her wearing them, smiling, the way she always did during pujo.

She never got to wear them.

She flew away before the festival came.

Those saris still sit in my cupboard. New. Untouched. I can't bring myself to wear them. But the ones she did wear—the ones with her scent still caught in the folds—those, I drape. And when I do, I feel her with me. Her warmth. Her grace. Her hands adjusting my pallu.

You've stood in front of your mother's cupboard too. You've touched her saris. Held them to your face. Felt the weight of memory in silk and cotton.

You remember how she looked getting ready. The pins in her mouth. The pleats coming together. The blouse she paired it with.

Even now, as a grown woman, you want those moments back.

Your mother taught you what beauty looks like. What grace feels like. What it means to dress with love, not just fashion.

That feeling deserves a home.

With my husband's support—his belief when mine wavered—I started House of Uma Legacy Co.

This isn't a business born from market research. It's a love letter. To my mother. To your mother. To every woman who taught us that a sari isn't just fabric. It's presence.

This is my way of keeping her here. Not locked in the past, but alive in what we wear, what we pass down, what we remember.

Uma's legacy. But also yours.

I hope you feel what I felt as a little girl. That sense of awe. That quiet pride.

I hope you feel your mother's hands adjusting your pallu, even if she's no longer here to do it.

I hope you wear them to your daughter's wedding. To Durga Puja. To that family function where you want to feel like yourself—rooted, beautiful, whole.

I hope these six yards connect you to where you come from. To the women who came before you. To the tradition that runs in your blood, whether you wear saris every day or just on special occasions.

Memory becomes moment when you drape them.