23-09-2025, 07:41 PM
It is Ramesh’s first week at Masterji’s shop. The small tailor shop sits quietly between a paan stall and a shuttered pharmacy, its wooden sign swinging slightly in the morning breeze.
Ramesh steps inside. The front desk is empty; Masterji is nowhere in sight. The faint clatter of a sewing machine hums from the back room. He knows Masterji must be there.
Ramesh’s fingers brush the polished counter as he moves forward, then he pushes open the narrow door leading to the back. The machine’s rhythm grows louder, steady, almost alive, and the rich scent of silk and thread drifts toward him. The room beyond is dim, but he can just make out the tall, hunched figure of Masterji bent over a piece of crimson fabric, hands moving with practiced precision.
Ramesh’s eyes sweep over the shelves of neatly folded fabrics, the threads glinting in the sunlight. The air smells faintly of cotton, silk, and machine oil. He notices how Masterji’s fingers brush the fabric with care, coaxing it, lifting it, letting it fall naturally.
Masterji glances up briefly, eyes sharp and bright, then returns to his work. Ramesh opens his mouth to speak, but Masterji already anticipates him somehow.
“Hush… don’t rush the silk… like some people, it has a temper,” Masterji says, his eyes never leaving the fabric.
Ramesh swallows, caught off guard. He steps back slightly, giving Masterji space, and watches as the needle pierces the deep crimson silk with a steady, almost musical rhythm.
“Must be careful with this edge,” Masterji murmurs softly, almost to the cloth itself. “It remembers everything.”
Ramesh swallows again and finally blurts out, “Masterji… what should I do first?”
Masterji glances at him briefly, then nods toward a stack of neatly folded silks. “Take these to the cutting table. Lay them out flat, smooth every fold.”
Ramesh steps forward and begins lifting the bolts of silk. The fabric is soft under his fingers, almost warm, and he can’t help but watch Masterji’s hands move with effortless precision over the crimson lehenga.
“Keep them in order,” Masterji adds without looking up. “Each one has its place. Don’t mix the shades.”
Ramesh nods, arranging the bolts as instructed. The hum of the sewing machine fills the room, steady and hypnotic, as he works.
They work until 11 a.m., then it’s time for chai. Ramesh steps out and walks to the nearby tea stall, ordering two cups. While Chotu prepares them, he wanders across to the paan stall. Babu, the wiry stall owner with stained teeth perpetually bared in a mischievous grin, eyes him hungrily.
Ramesh chuckles, swatting playfully. “Babu bhai, stop it! Masterji will hear you. And those are our customers,have some respect.”
Babu just winked, expertly folding a betel leaf. "Respect? For those apsaras who come to get their blouses stitched? Arre, Ramesh, you're young. You see the measurements Masterji takes, eh? That Rekha Rani, the one with the… cough, generous figure... he needs a ladder to measure her! And that tight salwar kameez she wore last week? Showed off her… gestures suggestively… assets quite nicely, wouldn't you say?"
He popped the paan into his mouth, chewing with gusto. "And what about that young Meena, always fluttering her eyelashes and asking for the blouse to be just so? Hmmm, she knows exactly what she's doing, showing off her… makes a cupping motion with his hands… youthful charms."
Ramesh shifts uncomfortably. He is getting used to Babu's crude jokes; it was just Babu being Babu.
He tried to steer the conversation away. "Tea should be ready soon, Babu bhai. Looks like Chotu is bringing it over. You want one?"
Babu, unfazed, spat a stream of red juice into a nearby drain. "Nah, I'll stick to my paan for now. But let me tell you, Ramesh, Masterji is a lucky man. Surrounded by such… gestures again… inspiration all day long. Though, between you and me," he leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "I wouldn't mind taking some measurements myself!" He punctuates the statement with a wet, smacking sound.
Ramesh feels trapped in the conversation, just wanting his tea and to get back to the shop. Before he can respond, Chotu arrives, balancing two steaming glasses.
Relief washes over him. “Ah, perfect timing! Here, Chotu, let me take those.”
He pays and turns to Babu, forcing a smile. “Gotta go, Babu bhai. See you later.”
He hurries back to the tailor shop with the two cups. In the back room, Raghunath Master stands in front of the mirror caressing the crimson lehenga.
A new one is bound. Her pulse beats in my cloth, her soul sewn into my seams. Tomorrow she will shine, and they will all come. The town does not yet know it, but every bride shall wear me. Every husband shall share his wife with my threads. I do not cut fabric. I carve vessels. A sleeve to cradle a wrist, a bodice to breathe upon her chest, a hem to kiss her ankles. They think they pay for silk, for zari, for the shimmer of borrowed luxury. But what they buy is entry. What they carry home is me. Last night, I listened as the new one sighed in her sleep. She whispered a name. Not his. Mine. With her lips, wrapped with the rustle of the garment, the creak of the threads tightening around her body. The husband turned beside her, ignorant. It was I who held her. The town believes the shop is a place of commerce. They do not see the loom behind the curtain. My clothes are only the messengers. It is me that devours. One by one, they shall come to me. One by one, I will bind them. They all will kneel for measurements, and I will measure their futures.
“Masterji… chai,” Ramesh calls, breaking him from his thoughts.
Ramesh steps inside. The front desk is empty; Masterji is nowhere in sight. The faint clatter of a sewing machine hums from the back room. He knows Masterji must be there.
Ramesh’s fingers brush the polished counter as he moves forward, then he pushes open the narrow door leading to the back. The machine’s rhythm grows louder, steady, almost alive, and the rich scent of silk and thread drifts toward him. The room beyond is dim, but he can just make out the tall, hunched figure of Masterji bent over a piece of crimson fabric, hands moving with practiced precision.
Ramesh’s eyes sweep over the shelves of neatly folded fabrics, the threads glinting in the sunlight. The air smells faintly of cotton, silk, and machine oil. He notices how Masterji’s fingers brush the fabric with care, coaxing it, lifting it, letting it fall naturally.
Masterji glances up briefly, eyes sharp and bright, then returns to his work. Ramesh opens his mouth to speak, but Masterji already anticipates him somehow.
“Hush… don’t rush the silk… like some people, it has a temper,” Masterji says, his eyes never leaving the fabric.
Ramesh swallows, caught off guard. He steps back slightly, giving Masterji space, and watches as the needle pierces the deep crimson silk with a steady, almost musical rhythm.
“Must be careful with this edge,” Masterji murmurs softly, almost to the cloth itself. “It remembers everything.”
Ramesh swallows again and finally blurts out, “Masterji… what should I do first?”
Masterji glances at him briefly, then nods toward a stack of neatly folded silks. “Take these to the cutting table. Lay them out flat, smooth every fold.”
Ramesh steps forward and begins lifting the bolts of silk. The fabric is soft under his fingers, almost warm, and he can’t help but watch Masterji’s hands move with effortless precision over the crimson lehenga.
“Keep them in order,” Masterji adds without looking up. “Each one has its place. Don’t mix the shades.”
Ramesh nods, arranging the bolts as instructed. The hum of the sewing machine fills the room, steady and hypnotic, as he works.
They work until 11 a.m., then it’s time for chai. Ramesh steps out and walks to the nearby tea stall, ordering two cups. While Chotu prepares them, he wanders across to the paan stall. Babu, the wiry stall owner with stained teeth perpetually bared in a mischievous grin, eyes him hungrily.
Ramesh chuckles, swatting playfully. “Babu bhai, stop it! Masterji will hear you. And those are our customers,have some respect.”
Babu just winked, expertly folding a betel leaf. "Respect? For those apsaras who come to get their blouses stitched? Arre, Ramesh, you're young. You see the measurements Masterji takes, eh? That Rekha Rani, the one with the… cough, generous figure... he needs a ladder to measure her! And that tight salwar kameez she wore last week? Showed off her… gestures suggestively… assets quite nicely, wouldn't you say?"
He popped the paan into his mouth, chewing with gusto. "And what about that young Meena, always fluttering her eyelashes and asking for the blouse to be just so? Hmmm, she knows exactly what she's doing, showing off her… makes a cupping motion with his hands… youthful charms."
Ramesh shifts uncomfortably. He is getting used to Babu's crude jokes; it was just Babu being Babu.
He tried to steer the conversation away. "Tea should be ready soon, Babu bhai. Looks like Chotu is bringing it over. You want one?"
Babu, unfazed, spat a stream of red juice into a nearby drain. "Nah, I'll stick to my paan for now. But let me tell you, Ramesh, Masterji is a lucky man. Surrounded by such… gestures again… inspiration all day long. Though, between you and me," he leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "I wouldn't mind taking some measurements myself!" He punctuates the statement with a wet, smacking sound.
Ramesh feels trapped in the conversation, just wanting his tea and to get back to the shop. Before he can respond, Chotu arrives, balancing two steaming glasses.
Relief washes over him. “Ah, perfect timing! Here, Chotu, let me take those.”
He pays and turns to Babu, forcing a smile. “Gotta go, Babu bhai. See you later.”
He hurries back to the tailor shop with the two cups. In the back room, Raghunath Master stands in front of the mirror caressing the crimson lehenga.
A new one is bound. Her pulse beats in my cloth, her soul sewn into my seams. Tomorrow she will shine, and they will all come. The town does not yet know it, but every bride shall wear me. Every husband shall share his wife with my threads. I do not cut fabric. I carve vessels. A sleeve to cradle a wrist, a bodice to breathe upon her chest, a hem to kiss her ankles. They think they pay for silk, for zari, for the shimmer of borrowed luxury. But what they buy is entry. What they carry home is me. Last night, I listened as the new one sighed in her sleep. She whispered a name. Not his. Mine. With her lips, wrapped with the rustle of the garment, the creak of the threads tightening around her body. The husband turned beside her, ignorant. It was I who held her. The town believes the shop is a place of commerce. They do not see the loom behind the curtain. My clothes are only the messengers. It is me that devours. One by one, they shall come to me. One by one, I will bind them. They all will kneel for measurements, and I will measure their futures.
“Masterji… chai,” Ramesh calls, breaking him from his thoughts.
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