In my mother’s jewelry box, nothing was ever just metal. Each piece had a story, a time, a person, a place.

A little gold chain given to her by her father before her wedding.

The jhumkas she wore on her first Diwali in a new city.

The bangles she kept wrapped in cloth, always at the back of the drawer — too precious to wear, too heavy to forget.

To her, jewelry was tradition.
To me, it became something else.

I didn’t grow up wanting to wear gold. I admired it, yes. But it didn’t feel like me.

Gold was legacy. Silver was freedom.

Where gold reminded me of family gatherings and locked cupboards, silver felt like morning walks, sketchbooks, sunlight on bare skin.

My mother wore her jewelry to be seen.
I wear mine to feel like myself.

And yet, somehow, we both love the same thing — in different languages.

Her love for gold wasn’t just about the metal.
It was about meaning and that's what I carried forward — not the shine, but the soul.

That’s why I started 224.

Not to rebel against tradition, but to redefine it.
To create jewelry that holds the same emotional weight — just lighter, softer, more me.

Each silver piece I make is rooted in the same care she showed me growing up.

Craftsmanship. Thoughtfulness. Ritual.

But it’s also built for now. For movement. For moments that aren’t just occasions.

When she sees what I make, she smiles.
Not because it looks like hers.
But because it feels like mine.

And maybe that’s the most beautiful thing about taste — it evolves, but it never forgets where it came from.

So here we are.
Mom’s gold. My silver.
Both made with heart.
Both built to last.
And both, in their own way, sacred.

— M.