“Meera-tai!” he beamed, wiping his hands on his white kurta . “It has been… fifteen years? You came with your mother-in-law to buy a saree for Ritu’s graduation.”
For the next hour, Meera was transported. She ran her fingers over silks that shimmered like peacock feathers—deep blues, fiery oranges, the red of a bride’s kumkum . Each saree had a story. The moru (peacock) motif for grace. The asawalli (flower) for fertility. The narali (coconut) for prosperity. Her mother-in-law had once explained all of this to her. At the time, Meera had found it tedious. Now, she found it profound. “Meera-tai
She just stood there, a woman in a twilight-blue saree, in a flat in Pune, on a Tuesday morning. And for the first time in a very long time, she felt a deep, quiet, unshakable sense of peace. She ran her fingers over silks that shimmered
Memory jabbed her. “Yes. A green Banarasi .” The asawalli (flower) for fertility