20-06-2025, 09:43 PM
Saturday morning arrived with a strange, hollow peace that Devika hadn't expected. The storm of confronting Anand, of watching his face contort with panic as she displayed the damning photographs, had passed, leaving behind a strange clarity like the washed-clean air after monsoon rains. She moved through her apartment with quiet purpose, tea cup warming her palms as she stood by the window, watching Pune begin its weekend rituals without feeling any need to join them. For the first time in months—perhaps years—she had no husband to please, no expectations to meet but her own.
The realization settled in her chest, not quite joy but something adjacent to it—a weightlessness, as if she'd shed a skin that had grown too tight. She absently fingered the gold mangalsutra at her neck, the symbol of a marriage that now existed only in legal documents. She still wore it, a shield against unwanted attention rather than a badge of pride, but its meaning had transformed overnight.
Devika set her empty cup in the sink and wandered to her bedroom, where the morning light spilled across her bed. She stood before her open wardrobe, eyes tracing the neat row of sarees—each one chosen with careful consideration of what Anand might approve, what her in-laws might deem appropriate, what wouldn't draw comments from colleagues back in Kerala.
"Bold." The word whispered in her mind, Sharada's voice giving it shape. "You need to be bold, Devika. Stop hiding behind what others expect."
Her friend's advice, initially about classroom management, now seemed to apply to every corner of her life. Bold. The opposite of what she'd been trained to be since childhood. Good Kerala girls were modest, reserved, traditional. Even her decision to pursue higher education had been framed as a way to become a more suitable wife, not as self-fulfillment.
Her fingers brushed against a package tucked at the back of her wardrobe—unstitched blouse materials she'd purchased months ago during a moment of daring, then hidden away when Anand had commented disapprovingly on a colleague's wife who'd worn a sleeveless blouse to a department dinner.
"Too exposing," he'd said later that night. "Not suitable for a professor's wife."
She pulled the package out now, unwrapping the tissue paper to reveal three pieces of silk in rich, jewel tones—emerald, sapphire, ruby. The fabric slipped cool and smooth between her fingers as she held them up to the light. She'd chosen them for their quality, their colors, never quite admitting to herself that she'd been drawn to their potential to become something Anand wouldn't approve.
Sleeveless blouses. The thought materialized with sudden clarity. She'd seen many professional women in Pune wearing them—doctors, lawyers, professors—their arms bare below elegantly dbangd saree pallus. They looked confident, modern, unencumbered. Like women who made their own choices.
"Why not?" she murmured to her reflection. "Why not now?"
Decision made, Devika changed into a simple cotton saree in muted gold, gathered her blouse materials, and placed them carefully in a cloth bag. She needed a tailor—someone who could transform these lengths of silk into the vision forming in her mind.
As she left her apartment, Ramlal stood at his usual post near the security booth. Something had shifted between them since their tea together, since her apology—a strange, fragile connection neither professional nor quite friendly.
"Good morning, Devika," he called, using her name with the careful deliberation that still sounded strange coming from him. "You look well today."
"Thank you, Ramlal-ji." She paused, noticing how his eyes brightened at her attention. "I'm heading out to find a tailor. Do you know of any good ones nearby?"
"Tailor?" He straightened, professional pride entering his voice. "There are several shops on Laxmi Road, not far from here. Sharma Tailoring is most popular, though they charge extra for rush orders."
"Thank you." She smiled, adjusting her bag. "I'll try there first."
Ramlal nodded, watching her leave with that same mixture of admiration and longing she'd grown accustomed to seeing in his gaze. It no longer bothered her as it once had—perhaps because after Anand's betrayal, honest desire seemed preferable to disguised contempt.
The tailor shop was exactly where Ramlal had described, nestled between a stationery store and a small tea stall. A bell tinkled as Devika pushed open the door, stepping into a space fragrant with the smell of new fabric and starch. A middle-aged man looked up from behind a counter where he was measuring out dark wool with practiced precision.
"Yes, madam? How can I help?" He set aside his work, eyeing her with professional assessment.
"I need some blouses made," Devika explained, removing her materials from the bag. "Sleeveless designs, if possible."
The tailor nodded, accepting the fabrics with careful hands. "Very nice quality, madam. I can make beautiful blouses from these. Do you have a particular style in mind?"
"Something simple but elegant. Not too revealing, but..." She hesitated, searching for the right words. "Modern. Confident."
"I understand perfectly." He smiled, setting the materials on his counter. "I'll need to take your measurements."
"I have an existing blouse that fits well," Devika offered, producing a carefully folded blouse from her bag. "Could you use this for the measurements?"
The tailor examined the blouse, his fingers expert as they traced the seams and darts. Then he shook his head regretfully. "I'm sorry, madam, but for a first-time customer, I need fresh measurements. Especially for sleeveless designs—the armhole cut must be precise or the blouse will gap or bind."
Devika glanced around the shop, noting the absence of any female staff. "Is there a woman who could take my measurements?" she asked, discomfort creeping into her voice.
"My wife sometimes assists, but she is visiting her mother this week." He gestured to a small curtained area at the back of the shop. "I assure you, madam, I am a professional. I have been taking measurements for ladies' garments for thirty years."
Despite his reassurances, Devika felt a flutter of unease at the thought of this stranger's hands moving around her body, measuring intimate areas. In Kerala, she'd always gone to female tailors, or at least shops with female assistants for this purpose.
"I'm sorry," she said, gathering her materials back into her bag. "I think I'll try somewhere else."
The man seemed disappointed but not surprised. "As you wish, madam. If you change your mind, my shop is always open."
Outside again, the morning sun now high enough to cast short shadows, Devika felt a flicker of frustration. She tried two more shops with similar results—each needed measurements, none had female staff available. By the third rejection, her determination had begun to fray.
Standing on the sidewalk, uncertain where to try next, a memory surfaced—Ramlal mentioning his past during one of their afternoon teas. "Before security work, I was many things," he'd said. "Factory worker, cook's assistant, even tailor for some years in Mumbai garment workshop."
The thought came suddenly, unexpectedly—Ramlal could take her measurements. The idea should have seemed absurd, inappropriate even, but it settled in her mind with strange logic. Better someone she knew, someone already familiar with her, than a complete stranger. Someone who already looked at her with appreciation rather than a stranger whose gaze she couldn't interpret.
Devika returned to the apartment complex, finding Ramlal dozing in his chair beside the security booth, his chin drooping toward his chest in the afternoon heat. He startled awake as she approached, straightening his uniform cap with embarrassed haste.
"Devika! I mean, madam. You've returned quickly." He blinked away sleep, his weathered face creasing with concern. "Was there a problem with the tailors?"
"Yes and no," she replied, stopping before him. "The shops were where you said, but none had female staff to take measurements. I wasn't comfortable having a strange man measure me."
Ramlal nodded in understanding. "Many ladies feel the same. Perhaps try again on Monday? Sharma's wife should be back by then."
"Actually," Devika began, then paused, suddenly uncertain. "Ramlal-ji, you mentioned once that you worked as a tailor in Mumbai."
His eyebrows rose in surprise. "Yes, many years ago. Before my hair turned white and my fingers grew stiff." He flexed his hands as if to demonstrate their diminished dexterity.
"Are you still able to take measurements?" The question emerged more bluntly than she'd intended.
Ramlal's mouth opened slightly, confusion giving way to dawning comprehension. "You want me to measure you for your blouses?"
"I thought—" Devika felt heat rise to her cheeks. "I thought it might be better than a stranger. Someone I know. But if you're uncomfortable—"
"No, no," he interrupted hastily. "I mean, yes, I can take measurements. I remember the process well. But..." He glanced around the courtyard, lowering his voice. "It would not be proper. People would talk if I went to your flat for such a purpose."
"People already talk because I invited you for tea," Devika replied, a new boldness in her voice. "I'm past caring what they think."
Ramlal studied her face, searching for something—permission, perhaps, or reassurance that this wasn't some test he was failing. "You are sure? It is very... personal work."
"I'm sure." Devika's voice was firm despite the flutter of nerves in her stomach. "I trust you more than some stranger in a shop."
He nodded slowly, a mixture of pride and trepidation crossing his features. "I will need a measuring tape. And paper to record the numbers."
"I have those things," she assured him. "Could you come to my apartment in about ten minutes? After your shift change?"
"Yes, I can do that." His eyes darted around again, as if checking for eavesdroppers. "But Devika, I must say—I am just a poor old man. Not clean and proper like the tailors in shops. My hands..." He held them up, callused and stained from years of manual labor. "Not suitable for touching fine fabrics. Or..."
The unspoken word hung between them—"you."
Devika surprised herself with a genuine laugh. "Ramlal-ji, I've seen you chewing paan and spitting over the railing when you think no one is looking. I know exactly what kind of old man you are." Her smile softened the words. "But you're an old man I know, not a stranger. I'll see you in ten minutes."
She left him standing bewildered by his post, his weathered face a mixture of disbelief and barely contained anticipation.
Back in her apartment, Devika moved with nervous energy, tidying the already clean space, setting out her blouse materials on the dining table, finding her measuring tape and a notebook.
The thought sent a small shiver through her—standing before Ramlal in just her petticoat while he measured her. It wasn't proper, wasn't what a respectable Kerala woman would do. But she was no longer just that woman. She was Devika Nair, PhD, a woman betrayed by her husband and rebuilding herself from the broken pieces.
At precisely ten minutes past their conversation, a hesitant knock sounded at her door. Devika took a deep breath, smoothing her saree, and opened it to find Ramlal standing in the corridor, a measuring tape clutched in his gnarled hands. He'd changed from his security uniform into civilian clothes—a faded but clean shirt and loose trousers—and his hair was freshly combed, still damp at the temples.
"You came," she said, stepping aside to let him enter.
"I said I would." He stepped inside, his movements stiff with self-consciousness. He smelled of cheap soap and betel nut, an oddly comforting combination that reminded Devika of the older men in her father's circle back home.
She closed the door and turned the lock with a soft click that seemed to echo in the silent apartment. Ramlal's eyes widened slightly at the sound, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.
"Would you like tea first?" Devika asked, suddenly needing to delay the inevitable, to establish some normalcy before proceeding.
"Yes, tea would be good." Relief flooded his voice. "To steady the hands."
She busied herself in the kitchen while Ramlal remained standing awkwardly by the door, as if afraid to make himself comfortable. When she returned with two steaming cups, she gestured to the sofa.
"Please, sit. You're making me nervous hovering there like a ghost."
He obeyed, perching on the edge of the cushion, the measuring tape still clutched in his lap. Devika sat beside him, maintaining a careful distance, and handed him a cup.
"Have you made many women's blouses?" she asked after they had each taken a sip.
"Many, yes, in the workshop. Women's blouses, children's dresses, men's shirts." He relaxed slightly as he spoke of his past profession. "I was known for fine stitching. Steady hands." He glanced down at his fingers, now knotted with age. "Then, not now."
"But you remember how to take measurements?"
"Oh yes. That never leaves you." He tapped his temple. "Up here, the numbers are clear. Bust, waist, shoulder to shoulder, armhole depth." His hands made small, precise gestures in the air as he named each measurement.
"Good." Devika set down her cup, gathering her courage. "Because I want sleeveless blouses, and the shops all said the measurements must be exact."
Ramlal's eyes widened again. "Sleeveless? You?"
"Yes, me," she replied, a defensive edge entering her voice. "Is that so surprising?"
"No, no," he backpedaled quickly. "Only that you always wear such traditional styles. Sleeveless is more..." He searched for an acceptable word. "Modern."
"Exactly." Devika's fingers brushed against the silk fabrics laid out on the table. "I want to be more modern. More confident."
Ramlal studied her face, something like understanding dawning in his eyes. "This is because of your husband? The one in Dubai?"
The question caught her off guard. "How did you know about that?"
"Guards hear things," he said simply. "And I see no husband visit in three months I've been here."
Devika was quiet for a moment, weighing how much to share. "Yes," she admitted finally. "It's because of him. Or rather, because of me—who I want to be now that I've seen who he really is."
Ramlal nodded, not pressing for details. "I understand changing yourself after betrayal. My wife left me for a bank manager. Younger, richer. After that, I became security guard. Wanted to feel strong, protective." He smiled ruefully. "Foolish old man dreams."
"Not foolish," Devika said softly. "Human."
They sat in companionable silence for a moment, finishing their tea. Then Ramlal set down his cup with a decisive clink.
The realization settled in her chest, not quite joy but something adjacent to it—a weightlessness, as if she'd shed a skin that had grown too tight. She absently fingered the gold mangalsutra at her neck, the symbol of a marriage that now existed only in legal documents. She still wore it, a shield against unwanted attention rather than a badge of pride, but its meaning had transformed overnight.
Devika set her empty cup in the sink and wandered to her bedroom, where the morning light spilled across her bed. She stood before her open wardrobe, eyes tracing the neat row of sarees—each one chosen with careful consideration of what Anand might approve, what her in-laws might deem appropriate, what wouldn't draw comments from colleagues back in Kerala.
"Bold." The word whispered in her mind, Sharada's voice giving it shape. "You need to be bold, Devika. Stop hiding behind what others expect."
Her friend's advice, initially about classroom management, now seemed to apply to every corner of her life. Bold. The opposite of what she'd been trained to be since childhood. Good Kerala girls were modest, reserved, traditional. Even her decision to pursue higher education had been framed as a way to become a more suitable wife, not as self-fulfillment.
Her fingers brushed against a package tucked at the back of her wardrobe—unstitched blouse materials she'd purchased months ago during a moment of daring, then hidden away when Anand had commented disapprovingly on a colleague's wife who'd worn a sleeveless blouse to a department dinner.
"Too exposing," he'd said later that night. "Not suitable for a professor's wife."
She pulled the package out now, unwrapping the tissue paper to reveal three pieces of silk in rich, jewel tones—emerald, sapphire, ruby. The fabric slipped cool and smooth between her fingers as she held them up to the light. She'd chosen them for their quality, their colors, never quite admitting to herself that she'd been drawn to their potential to become something Anand wouldn't approve.
Sleeveless blouses. The thought materialized with sudden clarity. She'd seen many professional women in Pune wearing them—doctors, lawyers, professors—their arms bare below elegantly dbangd saree pallus. They looked confident, modern, unencumbered. Like women who made their own choices.
"Why not?" she murmured to her reflection. "Why not now?"
Decision made, Devika changed into a simple cotton saree in muted gold, gathered her blouse materials, and placed them carefully in a cloth bag. She needed a tailor—someone who could transform these lengths of silk into the vision forming in her mind.
As she left her apartment, Ramlal stood at his usual post near the security booth. Something had shifted between them since their tea together, since her apology—a strange, fragile connection neither professional nor quite friendly.
"Good morning, Devika," he called, using her name with the careful deliberation that still sounded strange coming from him. "You look well today."
"Thank you, Ramlal-ji." She paused, noticing how his eyes brightened at her attention. "I'm heading out to find a tailor. Do you know of any good ones nearby?"
"Tailor?" He straightened, professional pride entering his voice. "There are several shops on Laxmi Road, not far from here. Sharma Tailoring is most popular, though they charge extra for rush orders."
"Thank you." She smiled, adjusting her bag. "I'll try there first."
Ramlal nodded, watching her leave with that same mixture of admiration and longing she'd grown accustomed to seeing in his gaze. It no longer bothered her as it once had—perhaps because after Anand's betrayal, honest desire seemed preferable to disguised contempt.
The tailor shop was exactly where Ramlal had described, nestled between a stationery store and a small tea stall. A bell tinkled as Devika pushed open the door, stepping into a space fragrant with the smell of new fabric and starch. A middle-aged man looked up from behind a counter where he was measuring out dark wool with practiced precision.
"Yes, madam? How can I help?" He set aside his work, eyeing her with professional assessment.
"I need some blouses made," Devika explained, removing her materials from the bag. "Sleeveless designs, if possible."
The tailor nodded, accepting the fabrics with careful hands. "Very nice quality, madam. I can make beautiful blouses from these. Do you have a particular style in mind?"
"Something simple but elegant. Not too revealing, but..." She hesitated, searching for the right words. "Modern. Confident."
"I understand perfectly." He smiled, setting the materials on his counter. "I'll need to take your measurements."
"I have an existing blouse that fits well," Devika offered, producing a carefully folded blouse from her bag. "Could you use this for the measurements?"
The tailor examined the blouse, his fingers expert as they traced the seams and darts. Then he shook his head regretfully. "I'm sorry, madam, but for a first-time customer, I need fresh measurements. Especially for sleeveless designs—the armhole cut must be precise or the blouse will gap or bind."
Devika glanced around the shop, noting the absence of any female staff. "Is there a woman who could take my measurements?" she asked, discomfort creeping into her voice.
"My wife sometimes assists, but she is visiting her mother this week." He gestured to a small curtained area at the back of the shop. "I assure you, madam, I am a professional. I have been taking measurements for ladies' garments for thirty years."
Despite his reassurances, Devika felt a flutter of unease at the thought of this stranger's hands moving around her body, measuring intimate areas. In Kerala, she'd always gone to female tailors, or at least shops with female assistants for this purpose.
"I'm sorry," she said, gathering her materials back into her bag. "I think I'll try somewhere else."
The man seemed disappointed but not surprised. "As you wish, madam. If you change your mind, my shop is always open."
Outside again, the morning sun now high enough to cast short shadows, Devika felt a flicker of frustration. She tried two more shops with similar results—each needed measurements, none had female staff available. By the third rejection, her determination had begun to fray.
Standing on the sidewalk, uncertain where to try next, a memory surfaced—Ramlal mentioning his past during one of their afternoon teas. "Before security work, I was many things," he'd said. "Factory worker, cook's assistant, even tailor for some years in Mumbai garment workshop."
The thought came suddenly, unexpectedly—Ramlal could take her measurements. The idea should have seemed absurd, inappropriate even, but it settled in her mind with strange logic. Better someone she knew, someone already familiar with her, than a complete stranger. Someone who already looked at her with appreciation rather than a stranger whose gaze she couldn't interpret.
Devika returned to the apartment complex, finding Ramlal dozing in his chair beside the security booth, his chin drooping toward his chest in the afternoon heat. He startled awake as she approached, straightening his uniform cap with embarrassed haste.
"Devika! I mean, madam. You've returned quickly." He blinked away sleep, his weathered face creasing with concern. "Was there a problem with the tailors?"
"Yes and no," she replied, stopping before him. "The shops were where you said, but none had female staff to take measurements. I wasn't comfortable having a strange man measure me."
Ramlal nodded in understanding. "Many ladies feel the same. Perhaps try again on Monday? Sharma's wife should be back by then."
"Actually," Devika began, then paused, suddenly uncertain. "Ramlal-ji, you mentioned once that you worked as a tailor in Mumbai."
His eyebrows rose in surprise. "Yes, many years ago. Before my hair turned white and my fingers grew stiff." He flexed his hands as if to demonstrate their diminished dexterity.
"Are you still able to take measurements?" The question emerged more bluntly than she'd intended.
Ramlal's mouth opened slightly, confusion giving way to dawning comprehension. "You want me to measure you for your blouses?"
"I thought—" Devika felt heat rise to her cheeks. "I thought it might be better than a stranger. Someone I know. But if you're uncomfortable—"
"No, no," he interrupted hastily. "I mean, yes, I can take measurements. I remember the process well. But..." He glanced around the courtyard, lowering his voice. "It would not be proper. People would talk if I went to your flat for such a purpose."
"People already talk because I invited you for tea," Devika replied, a new boldness in her voice. "I'm past caring what they think."
Ramlal studied her face, searching for something—permission, perhaps, or reassurance that this wasn't some test he was failing. "You are sure? It is very... personal work."
"I'm sure." Devika's voice was firm despite the flutter of nerves in her stomach. "I trust you more than some stranger in a shop."
He nodded slowly, a mixture of pride and trepidation crossing his features. "I will need a measuring tape. And paper to record the numbers."
"I have those things," she assured him. "Could you come to my apartment in about ten minutes? After your shift change?"
"Yes, I can do that." His eyes darted around again, as if checking for eavesdroppers. "But Devika, I must say—I am just a poor old man. Not clean and proper like the tailors in shops. My hands..." He held them up, callused and stained from years of manual labor. "Not suitable for touching fine fabrics. Or..."
The unspoken word hung between them—"you."
Devika surprised herself with a genuine laugh. "Ramlal-ji, I've seen you chewing paan and spitting over the railing when you think no one is looking. I know exactly what kind of old man you are." Her smile softened the words. "But you're an old man I know, not a stranger. I'll see you in ten minutes."
She left him standing bewildered by his post, his weathered face a mixture of disbelief and barely contained anticipation.
Back in her apartment, Devika moved with nervous energy, tidying the already clean space, setting out her blouse materials on the dining table, finding her measuring tape and a notebook.
The thought sent a small shiver through her—standing before Ramlal in just her petticoat while he measured her. It wasn't proper, wasn't what a respectable Kerala woman would do. But she was no longer just that woman. She was Devika Nair, PhD, a woman betrayed by her husband and rebuilding herself from the broken pieces.
At precisely ten minutes past their conversation, a hesitant knock sounded at her door. Devika took a deep breath, smoothing her saree, and opened it to find Ramlal standing in the corridor, a measuring tape clutched in his gnarled hands. He'd changed from his security uniform into civilian clothes—a faded but clean shirt and loose trousers—and his hair was freshly combed, still damp at the temples.
"You came," she said, stepping aside to let him enter.
"I said I would." He stepped inside, his movements stiff with self-consciousness. He smelled of cheap soap and betel nut, an oddly comforting combination that reminded Devika of the older men in her father's circle back home.
She closed the door and turned the lock with a soft click that seemed to echo in the silent apartment. Ramlal's eyes widened slightly at the sound, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.
"Would you like tea first?" Devika asked, suddenly needing to delay the inevitable, to establish some normalcy before proceeding.
"Yes, tea would be good." Relief flooded his voice. "To steady the hands."
She busied herself in the kitchen while Ramlal remained standing awkwardly by the door, as if afraid to make himself comfortable. When she returned with two steaming cups, she gestured to the sofa.
"Please, sit. You're making me nervous hovering there like a ghost."
He obeyed, perching on the edge of the cushion, the measuring tape still clutched in his lap. Devika sat beside him, maintaining a careful distance, and handed him a cup.
"Have you made many women's blouses?" she asked after they had each taken a sip.
"Many, yes, in the workshop. Women's blouses, children's dresses, men's shirts." He relaxed slightly as he spoke of his past profession. "I was known for fine stitching. Steady hands." He glanced down at his fingers, now knotted with age. "Then, not now."
"But you remember how to take measurements?"
"Oh yes. That never leaves you." He tapped his temple. "Up here, the numbers are clear. Bust, waist, shoulder to shoulder, armhole depth." His hands made small, precise gestures in the air as he named each measurement.
"Good." Devika set down her cup, gathering her courage. "Because I want sleeveless blouses, and the shops all said the measurements must be exact."
Ramlal's eyes widened again. "Sleeveless? You?"
"Yes, me," she replied, a defensive edge entering her voice. "Is that so surprising?"
"No, no," he backpedaled quickly. "Only that you always wear such traditional styles. Sleeveless is more..." He searched for an acceptable word. "Modern."
"Exactly." Devika's fingers brushed against the silk fabrics laid out on the table. "I want to be more modern. More confident."
Ramlal studied her face, something like understanding dawning in his eyes. "This is because of your husband? The one in Dubai?"
The question caught her off guard. "How did you know about that?"
"Guards hear things," he said simply. "And I see no husband visit in three months I've been here."
Devika was quiet for a moment, weighing how much to share. "Yes," she admitted finally. "It's because of him. Or rather, because of me—who I want to be now that I've seen who he really is."
Ramlal nodded, not pressing for details. "I understand changing yourself after betrayal. My wife left me for a bank manager. Younger, richer. After that, I became security guard. Wanted to feel strong, protective." He smiled ruefully. "Foolish old man dreams."
"Not foolish," Devika said softly. "Human."
They sat in companionable silence for a moment, finishing their tea. Then Ramlal set down his cup with a decisive clink.
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