In the summer of 1929, an inspiring figure in India’s fight for freedom, Kamaladevi Chattopadhyay, journeyed to Berlin for a pivotal conference of the International Alliance of Women for Suffrage and Equal Citizenship. Under British colonial rule, the Indian delegation found themselves without a national flag to represent them.
Kamaladevi, a name synonymous with Indian independence, viewed this omission as a profound injustice. In an extraordinary act of defiance and creativity, she and her fellow delegates tore apart their own saris, crafting a makeshift flag to proudly display at the conference’s opening gala.
“No one begrudged tearing up their fineries,” she later recounted, as detailed in the biography “The Art of Freedom: Kamaladevi Chattopadhyay and the Making of Modern India.” “In fact, we felt free and liberated.” This moment cemented the sari’s role beyond mere attire.
With this single, powerful act, these women transformed the sari into an undeniable symbol of political resistance.
An ancient garment still gracing red carpets and fashion runways today, the six-to-nine-yard sari has always embodied more than just fabric. It stands as a powerful emblem of empowerment, a testament to global trade, a tool of diplomatic soft power, and a banner of resistance.
This profound concept is precisely what the “New York Sari” exhibition at the New York Historical, running through April, explores. The show delves into how the sari is intricately woven into the rich and complex histories of the Indian subcontinent, and surprisingly, New York City and the United States. As historian and curator Salonee Bhaman explained during a recent tour, the exhibition aims to illuminate stories of migration, diaspora, and resilience through the lens of this iconic garment.
“It’s like a flag that people have used to weave their own narratives,” added Ms. Bhaman, herself wearing a beautiful floral, bronze-colored silk sari (also known as saree). She demonstrated its versatility by styling it over leggings, secured with a gold-buckled belt, moving beyond its traditional drape over a petticoat skirt.
Conceived about 20 months prior by the New York Historical and the Center for Women’s History, the exhibition’s opening coincides with a period marked by heightened anti-immigration sentiment and enforcement in various American cities. Shradha Kochhar, an artist whose work is featured in the show, noted that presenting an exhibition celebrating the South Asian immigrant community’s influence on New York’s history is, in itself, a subversive act.
During her sculpture installation in early September, 29-year-old Ms. Kochhar was personally navigating the complexities of visa renewal. That very day, friends messaged her with warnings about immigration officers in her neighborhood of Crown Heights.
The pervasive rhetoric of “good immigrant” versus “bad immigrant” profoundly affected her, she shared, bringing her to tears throughout the installation process.
Centuries before British colonization in the 18th century, India was a global leader in textile manufacturing and export, with its exquisite fabrics reaching markets as distant as Mexico. Historian William Dalrymple highlights this in his book, “The Anarchy: the East India Company, Corporate Violence, and the Pillage of an Empire.”
Dalrymple notes that numerous English words related to textiles, such as chintz, calico, shawl, pajamas, khaki, dungarees, cummerbund, and taffeta, all have Indian roots, underscoring the subcontinent’s historical significance in the textile world.
Upon their arrival, the British systematically dismantled India’s thriving local weaving industry. They replaced indigenous kala cotton with seeds imported from Alabama, exporting the raw material to England for mass production into cloth, which was then resold to Indians.
In response to this economic exploitation, wearing handwoven Indian saris became a powerful act of rebellion for women like Kamaladevi, whose inspiring story is prominently featured in the exhibition.
Adjacent to Kamaladevi’s narrative is Ms. Kochhar’s ethereal, whipped-cream-like sculpture, meticulously created from kala cotton she personally spun in the United States, embodying a contemporary connection to historical textiles.
Elsewhere in the exhibition, a striking grainy photograph captures activist Gloria Steinem wearing a sari during her 1957 visit to India. In her autobiography “My Life on the Road,” Steinem recounts learning to tie the garment in a way that allowed her to play tennis. More significantly, she met with Kamaladevi to immerse herself in the peaceful protest tactics that underpinned India’s independence movement, strategies she would later adapt for the burgeoning 1970s feminist movement in the United States.
The exhibition also pays homage to Jagjit Singh, an activist who collaborated with Mahatma Gandhi. Forced to flee India for New York in the 1920s due to a British arrest warrant, Singh established a thriving Indian textile and sari business on Fifth Avenue. His clientele included prominent figures such as Yul Brynner, Eleanor Roosevelt, and even Hollywood costume designers.
Leveraging his influence among New York’s elite, Mr. Singh tirelessly championed India’s independence from abroad. He forged strong alliances with key figures in the American civil rights movement and successfully lobbied Congress to pass the Luce-Cellar Act in 1946, a landmark achievement that enabled South Asian immigrants to finally become U.S. citizens.
Adrienne Ingrum, a visitor, expressed her pride in the New York Historical Society for showcasing such a vital exhibition. “It’s highlighting a segment of our community, individuals who have been here since the 1800s, whose contributions often go unrecognized,” she remarked. The exhibition left her inspired, she added, even wanting to wear a sari herself.
“I believe it broadens the definition of acceptable fashion within the city,” she concluded, emphasizing the exhibition’s cultural impact.