Her destination was Tilak Road, a spinal cord of old Pune where shops had been in the same families for over a century. She wasn’t going to a mall. She was going to Suhas Kala Mandir , a name her mother had whispered to her on her wedding day. “For your trousseau,” her mother had said. “The best Paithani in the world.”
Then she stood in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. Her destination was Tilak Road, a spinal cord
She undressed slowly, shedding her grey leggings and cotton kurta . She wrapped the saree around herself. She had done this thousands of times for others—for her wedding, for festivals, for family portraits. But this time, she did it for herself. She tucked the pallu over her left shoulder, letting the moru motifs dance across her chest. She pleated the front with precision. She fastened the fall with a safety pin. “For your trousseau,” her mother had said
“I’ll take two,” she said.
Suhas chuckled. “Everyone wants roots when they live on concrete.” He clapped his hands. “Kiran! Bring the new Paithani lot.” She wrapped the saree around herself