She chuckles, brief - "I am glad to hear it. We dress... very differently in my homeland, as I am sure you've noticed." Obviously, was that not how this all started? "Which is not to say we take any less pride in our appearance, of course. But it is... hot, there. Beyond even the worst days of this summer could dream of." It's chuckled, rather than admonished. Though the heat, granted, would change. Whether it was the deserts of Bundelkhand or the damp heat she had heard about in Ceylone.

Her hand smoothed out - "I have prepared a few styles for you. The saree, like I wear now, with the choli top, though there are many ways to wear it, depending on the preference of the drape. An anarkali dress with... trousers, and the Salwar suit," the pause seems to be on the word, shaping it in the right language to the terms before it, that each time seems to give her pause. She has spoken English, or whatever the term here was for it, for many years now, but it was still the fourth language she had learned. Switching between them took its brief toll, had a tone that was richer in her voice when she spokes names, that let her voice become deeper roll smoother, not quite so clipped on each vowel. " - and a lengha, or a long skirt. There are also the shawls, or dupattas, as well, to match each one. None of which I think you will find to be unfeminine."