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Nandini emerged from the makeshift changing room—a dusty room that once housed a library. She wore the first saree: a crisp white tant with a thick red border. Simple. Classic. She looked like a newlywed bride from a Satyajit Ray film.
And the model? Shruti’s own younger cousin, Nandini.
He walked over to Nandini. Without asking, he pulled the pallu off her shoulder, let it hang loose. Then he took a handful of dust from the courtyard and rubbed it on the hem of the saree.
The saree had done its job. It had told a story. And it would never, ever be just a garment again.
“You’re not Moushumi. You’re you,” Shruti said, holding up a Baluchari saree. Its pallu was heavy with scenes from the Ramayana. “And this is your armor.”
Anjan packed his lenses, a ghost of a smile on his face. “The story isn’t about the saree,” he said, not looking up. “It’s about how the saree holds her. And how she holds it back.”
They wrapped at 7 PM. The monsoon had finally broken, and rain lashed the courtyard. The shola flowers had collapsed into a white mush. The Baluchari was stained with red dust. Nandini was sitting on a crate, drinking flat soda water, her feet raw.
