Open your wardrobe. Push past the shirts, the polos, the piles of clothes stacked too close together. And there, you will find it… the panjabi you bought last Pahela Boishakh. Folded neatly, and hidden between twenty others, still crisp, because it waits for that one special day. Maybe once. Maybe not at all since the day you bought it.

Open your wardrobe. Push past the shirts, the polos, the piles of clothes stacked too close together. And there, you will find it… the panjabi you bought last Pahela Boishakh. Folded neatly, and hidden between twenty others, still crisp, because it waits for that one special day. Maybe once. Maybe not at all since the day you bought it.

Open your wardrobe. Push past the shirts, the polos, the piles of clothes stacked too close together. And there, you will find it… the panjabi you bought last Pahela Boishakh. Folded neatly, and hidden between twenty others, still crisp, because it waits for that one special day. Maybe once. Maybe not at all since the day you bought it.