I once saw a photograph of a woman that stayed with me for a long time. She was wearing a crisp, starched white sari leading an andolan with her legs planted firmly apart in a determined stance. Her expression however, was soft and generous, the face of someone you'd want to confide in. I don’t know if it was her stance or her expression, or that odd mixture of strength and kindness, but in that photograph she seemed capable of anything.

I’ve seen many women before and since, dressed in various saris, stiff and soft; children on their hips, ladles in their hands, astride cycles and scooters, the guardians of libraries, the keepers of discipline, respected dancers and sequinned singers, all being powerful and useful in their saris. So I wonder, why has our generation chosen to restrict saris to weddings and graduation ceremonies? Why are we so convinced that the sari that allows women to march through andolans and save rivers will somehow curb us from fully being ourselves?

To revive the feeling of comfort and beauty that a sari naturally offers us, Soup in partnership with House Of Taamara documented a group of young friends living in their saris. We caught them laughing together, jumping over walls, cooking up stories in kitchens, serving them with jokes for tea, curling up with poetry and music and running wild on rain drenched streets. The result is a photo essay that is neither demure nor docile, but simply natural and graceful like the experience of wearing a sari ought to be.