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The first big festival after a wedding is always special. The air feels festive, the families are watching, and the pressure to impress is as real as the payasam waiting on the table. For my husband, that festival was Thiruvonam—and for him, it wasn’t just a celebration. It was an audition.
We were preparing to visit my grandmother’s home for the traditional Onam lunch, where my entire maternal family would be gathered. The table would be full, the laughter louder, and my husband the cynosure. Naturally, he was determined to make a good impression.
He began with a half-hour shower. I could hear him humming like a playback singer preparing for a concert, probably practising polite responses to my relatives’ interrogation round. Then came the real battle: The Great Wardrobe Crisis of Onam.
Shirts flew, trousers tangled, belts disappeared mysteriously, and I heard him mutter motivational speeches to himself: “You can do this… you’ve handled worse.”
Finally, he emerged, proudly dressed in what he believed was the perfect ensemble—a synthetic shirt in a bold, shiny hue that looked better suited for a festive banner than a family lunch.
My father took one look at him, raised an eyebrow, and said gently, “You’re meeting your in-laws, not hosting a disco.”
The poor man retreated to the bedroom, phone in hand, furiously Googling “best traditional outfit to impress wife’s family”
That was the moment it struck me—how even the simplest act of dressing can become complicated when the clothes we wear don’t reflect who we are.
And his wife, I knew how comfort clothing changed his confidence. He didn’t need the “perfect” outfit. He just needed one that felt like him.
That small, hilarious Onam crisis became one of the little sparks behind Appril—the belief that menswear shouldn’t demand performance. It should offer ease. Because elegance isn’t in loud fabrics or fleeting trends, but in quiet details, natural fibres, and honest comfort.
Later that evening, he changed into a soft linen shirt—pure, breathable, and understated. My mother smiled approvingly, my father nodded in quiet relief, and for the rest of the day, he was completely at ease—laughing, eating, and and winning everyone over, one banana chip at a time.
He didn’t just impress them. He became one of them.
And in that small moment, wrapped in linen and love, the philosophy of Appril found yet another stitch in its story: When clothing feels right, everything else falls effortlessly into place.