India, Jan. 23 -- It's often said that fashion moves in a loop. Personally, I feel like I've been spinning in circles. As someone on the wrong side of 40, I find myself perpetually torn: Dismissive of the chameleon-like speed of fast fashion, yet wary of being labelled a sartorial greenhorn. Times changed, trends shifted, and we evolved. Yet, my earliest fashion icon wasn't a Bollywood celebrity, but my mother. Tall and slender, she would glide into social gatherings like a diva in her Garden-print suits and pure chiffon sarees. She didn't just walk; she breezed through crowds with an inimitable grace. I grew up in awe of her collection, but in those days, minimalism wasn't a choice, it was our default setting. I vividly remember the heavily embroidered wedding chiffons my mother would unveil for Karwa Chauth. Today, the festival demands a new designer outfit every year. Back then, it was a lively coterie of neighbourhood aunties attired in their original wedding silks, the literal personification of grace and the carriers of legacy. Those sarees were treasure troves wrapped in yearning and woven with threads of memory. Without a desperate attempt to stand out, those gatherings were spectacles worth preserving, much like grandma's old pickles. Fast forward to the present, and sustainability often feels like more show than substance. Organic fabrics, natural dyes, and hand-block prints are displayed like trophies on Facebook reels and Instagram captions. High-end stores market themselves as conscientious revivalists of Indian heritage, but the glossy labels can be a facade. It remains a marketplace driven less by ethics and more by the relentless engine of consumption. The four Rs of reduce, reuse, recycle, and repurpose were once the unassuming, lived practices of our parents. Today, my generation hangs like a pendulum between the old and the new. We are the wise owls who keep closets full of transformations: Old sarees reborn as Indo-western tunics, worn-out silks turned into blouses, and dupattas reimagined as curtains. In our youth, the perfect fit mattered less than the thrill of haggling with a cousin to borrow her favourite lehenga. Then there is the modern wedding industry, a business model seemingly designed to dig a hole in one's pocket. Once, mehndi and haldi were intimate living-room affairs. Now, event managers dictate colour palettes with authority. If the invite says yellow, you wear yellow. Instagram rules and the unspoken rule is: An outfit posted online has reached its expiry date. The ladies' sangeet has ballooned from a cosy sing-along into a choreographed production under ornate chandeliers. The spotlight has shifted from the warmth of simplicity to the sartorial splendour of the guests. And yet, my heart resists. As a stickler for the old school, I still believe in the power of borrowing and lending. It isn't just about saving money or closet space; it is a small contribution to sustainable practice in daily life. Sustainability cannot remain a lofty buzzword or a hashtag. Let us revive it through mindful choices, not marketing campaigns. Recycle what you own. Repurpose what you inherit. Borrow when you can, and lend with magnanimity. True style isn't found in a shopping bag, but in a lived practice....