23-09-2025, 09:34 PM
Priya sits cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through her phone, while Tulip leans against the dresser, fiddling with her bangles.
“Priya… I don’t know,” Tulip laments. “I keep looking at these designer lehengas online, and they’re gorgeous, like dreams. But the prices…” She trails off, biting her lip.
Priya glances up, smirking. “Dreams come at a price, Dee. You knew that the day you started pinning those Sabyasachi looks to your Pinterest board.”
Tulip flushes. “Don’t tease. I just… I can’t imagine walking into the wedding hall in anything less. But Dad will have a fit if he knows I’m even considering something that expensive. And Mom will just say, ‘What’s wrong with the local tailor? He stitched mine and it lasted a thousand years."
“But look at the zari work, the flare, the hand embroidery. Can you imagine walking into the hall in this?” Priya says, her eyes glued to the screen.
Tulip sinks onto the bed beside her, sighing. “Everyone will stop breathing.”
Priya sprawls on the bed with her plaits undone and rolls her eyes. “Everyone will stop breathing anyway. You’re the bride.”
Tulip gets up impatiently and paces the room, her dupatta slipping from one shoulder as she speaks in a rush. “Priya, I don’t care, I want a designer lehenga. Nothing else will do. I’ve seen the pictures, the embroidery, the way the skirts move. How can I wear something ordinary after that?”
Priya sits on the bed, chin propped on her hand, watching her elder sister spiral. She giggles. “So what’s your grand plan? You’ll sell your jewellery in secret?”
Tulip smirks, though worry lingers in her eyes. “Maybe I will. All I know is, I can’t settle. This is my wedding. I want to feel like I’m wearing my dream dress.”
Then Tulip flops back on the bed and clutches a bridal magazine. “Priya, if Dad refuses, I swear I’ll just run away and get married in jeans and a top. At least then no one will complain about the cost.”
Priya giggles, then suddenly pauses, her expression shifting. “Wait… Dee you just remind me of something.”
Tulip turns her head. “What?”
“Remember Rachna’s sister’s wedding last winter? The one in Jhansi where we stayed two nights?”
Tulip’s eyes light up. “Of course! Ruchi is glowing. Her lehenga is unreal. I thought it was straight out of Delhi Fashion Week.”
Priya nods quickly, leaning in. “That’s what I thought too! But when I tell Rachna, she laughs and says, ‘Designer? Ha! It’s from some tailor in Shivnagar.
I didn't believe her at first, but she swears it. She says her jiju’s cousin gets everything made there too. Apparently this tailor makes bridal pieces that look like designer at a dirt cheap price.”
She continues ,“I’m not joking! Ask Rachna yourself. She says the stitching, the fit, the way the fabric shimmers. No one in the baraat guesses it isn’t designer. Even the photographers keep asking who the label is.”
Tulip presses her fingers to her lips, eyes narrowing in thought. “A tailor in Shivnagar…? And we’re right here. How have we never heard of him?”
Priya shrugs, a sly smile tugging at her mouth. “Maybe because we spend more time on Pinterest.”
Tulip’s excitement comes rushing back, brighter than before. “Then we’ll insist on going there. If he can make something like Ruchi wore…” She trails off, her voice full of awe. “Priya, maybe this could actually work.”
A week later, Tulip and Priya convince Rachna to take them to Ruchi’s house. The excuse is simple enough. Tulip wants to see the bridal outfit again, to judge if it truly holds up outside the glitter of the wedding night she keeps replaying in her mind.
Ruchi welcomes them warmly. Tea is poured, plates of mathri and kaju barfi laid out, and soon the living room fills with laughter and chatter.
“Ruchi,” Tulip says between sips, “I can’t stop thinking about your lehenga from the wedding. Honestly, it looks like it belongs to some top Delhi designer. You must tell me where it comes from.”
Ruchi laughs, her bangles clinking as she adjusts her dupatta. “Ah, that’s what everyone keeps asking. But no, no label, no showroom. Just a small shop in Shivnagar. The tailor is an old man who stitches it for me.”
She also reveals the making and material charges when asked.
Tulip and Priya’s jaws drop.
“No way.”
“Yes,” Ruchi says with pride. “Raghunath Master. People underestimate him because he doesn’t advertise, no glossy billboards. But once you wear his work, you understand. The fabric… it almost feels alive.” She smooths the folds of her dupatta absentmindedly.
Priya leans forward eagerly. “Alive? How so?”
Ruchi tilts her head, hesitating, then laughs it off. “Oh, maybe it’s just my nerves. But whenever I wear a dress made by Masterji, it feels like it’s embracing me. As though it’s made not just for my size, but for me. I feel beautiful in a way I never feel with other dresses.”
Tulip sighs dreamily. “That’s exactly what I want.”
As the laughter and chatter carry on, Tulip notices Ruchi fidgeting with her kurta. At first, it seems ordinary, just adjusting the dupatta, smoothing a crease. But she does it again, and again, as though her fingers can’t leave the fabric alone.
“This?” Ruchi smiles when Tulip comments on it. “Oh, yes, Masterji stitches this too. He says he has extra fabric from a bigger order and thinks it will suit me.” She runs her hand down the sleeve absentmindedly. “Honestly, I feel odd wearing anything else now. His dresses just… fit differently.”
Priya watches her more closely. Ruchi’s cheeks are flushed, though the afternoon isn’t particularly warm. Her voice carries a faint breathlessness when she speaks about the clothes, as though remembering something private, something scandalous. Every now and then, while pouring more tea, she stops mid-sentence and just stares at her reflection in the shiny steel tray. Then she shakes it off and laughs like it’s nothing.
“You girls should definitely go,” Ruchi says finally, her tone firm, almost insistent. “For your wedding, Tulip, there’s no one better. The way he takes measurements… it’s like he knows what you’ll look like before you even do. When I wear his dresses, it feels like…” She trails off, searching for words, her fingers tracing the embroidery at her neckline. “…like the dress is guiding me, not the other way around.”
Rachna chuckles lightly at her sister’s words. “Such dramatics. It’s only a tailor.”
But Tulip and Priya exchange a glance. Neither says it aloud, but both notice the same thing. Ruchi’s hand doesn’t stop stroking the fabric, as though she is soothing it, or it is soothing her.
“Priya… I don’t know,” Tulip laments. “I keep looking at these designer lehengas online, and they’re gorgeous, like dreams. But the prices…” She trails off, biting her lip.
Priya glances up, smirking. “Dreams come at a price, Dee. You knew that the day you started pinning those Sabyasachi looks to your Pinterest board.”
Tulip flushes. “Don’t tease. I just… I can’t imagine walking into the wedding hall in anything less. But Dad will have a fit if he knows I’m even considering something that expensive. And Mom will just say, ‘What’s wrong with the local tailor? He stitched mine and it lasted a thousand years."
“But look at the zari work, the flare, the hand embroidery. Can you imagine walking into the hall in this?” Priya says, her eyes glued to the screen.
Tulip sinks onto the bed beside her, sighing. “Everyone will stop breathing.”
Priya sprawls on the bed with her plaits undone and rolls her eyes. “Everyone will stop breathing anyway. You’re the bride.”
Tulip gets up impatiently and paces the room, her dupatta slipping from one shoulder as she speaks in a rush. “Priya, I don’t care, I want a designer lehenga. Nothing else will do. I’ve seen the pictures, the embroidery, the way the skirts move. How can I wear something ordinary after that?”
Priya sits on the bed, chin propped on her hand, watching her elder sister spiral. She giggles. “So what’s your grand plan? You’ll sell your jewellery in secret?”
Tulip smirks, though worry lingers in her eyes. “Maybe I will. All I know is, I can’t settle. This is my wedding. I want to feel like I’m wearing my dream dress.”
Then Tulip flops back on the bed and clutches a bridal magazine. “Priya, if Dad refuses, I swear I’ll just run away and get married in jeans and a top. At least then no one will complain about the cost.”
Priya giggles, then suddenly pauses, her expression shifting. “Wait… Dee you just remind me of something.”
Tulip turns her head. “What?”
“Remember Rachna’s sister’s wedding last winter? The one in Jhansi where we stayed two nights?”
Tulip’s eyes light up. “Of course! Ruchi is glowing. Her lehenga is unreal. I thought it was straight out of Delhi Fashion Week.”
Priya nods quickly, leaning in. “That’s what I thought too! But when I tell Rachna, she laughs and says, ‘Designer? Ha! It’s from some tailor in Shivnagar.
I didn't believe her at first, but she swears it. She says her jiju’s cousin gets everything made there too. Apparently this tailor makes bridal pieces that look like designer at a dirt cheap price.”
She continues ,“I’m not joking! Ask Rachna yourself. She says the stitching, the fit, the way the fabric shimmers. No one in the baraat guesses it isn’t designer. Even the photographers keep asking who the label is.”
Tulip presses her fingers to her lips, eyes narrowing in thought. “A tailor in Shivnagar…? And we’re right here. How have we never heard of him?”
Priya shrugs, a sly smile tugging at her mouth. “Maybe because we spend more time on Pinterest.”
Tulip’s excitement comes rushing back, brighter than before. “Then we’ll insist on going there. If he can make something like Ruchi wore…” She trails off, her voice full of awe. “Priya, maybe this could actually work.”
A week later, Tulip and Priya convince Rachna to take them to Ruchi’s house. The excuse is simple enough. Tulip wants to see the bridal outfit again, to judge if it truly holds up outside the glitter of the wedding night she keeps replaying in her mind.
Ruchi welcomes them warmly. Tea is poured, plates of mathri and kaju barfi laid out, and soon the living room fills with laughter and chatter.
“Ruchi,” Tulip says between sips, “I can’t stop thinking about your lehenga from the wedding. Honestly, it looks like it belongs to some top Delhi designer. You must tell me where it comes from.”
Ruchi laughs, her bangles clinking as she adjusts her dupatta. “Ah, that’s what everyone keeps asking. But no, no label, no showroom. Just a small shop in Shivnagar. The tailor is an old man who stitches it for me.”
She also reveals the making and material charges when asked.
Tulip and Priya’s jaws drop.
“No way.”
“Yes,” Ruchi says with pride. “Raghunath Master. People underestimate him because he doesn’t advertise, no glossy billboards. But once you wear his work, you understand. The fabric… it almost feels alive.” She smooths the folds of her dupatta absentmindedly.
Priya leans forward eagerly. “Alive? How so?”
Ruchi tilts her head, hesitating, then laughs it off. “Oh, maybe it’s just my nerves. But whenever I wear a dress made by Masterji, it feels like it’s embracing me. As though it’s made not just for my size, but for me. I feel beautiful in a way I never feel with other dresses.”
Tulip sighs dreamily. “That’s exactly what I want.”
As the laughter and chatter carry on, Tulip notices Ruchi fidgeting with her kurta. At first, it seems ordinary, just adjusting the dupatta, smoothing a crease. But she does it again, and again, as though her fingers can’t leave the fabric alone.
“This?” Ruchi smiles when Tulip comments on it. “Oh, yes, Masterji stitches this too. He says he has extra fabric from a bigger order and thinks it will suit me.” She runs her hand down the sleeve absentmindedly. “Honestly, I feel odd wearing anything else now. His dresses just… fit differently.”
Priya watches her more closely. Ruchi’s cheeks are flushed, though the afternoon isn’t particularly warm. Her voice carries a faint breathlessness when she speaks about the clothes, as though remembering something private, something scandalous. Every now and then, while pouring more tea, she stops mid-sentence and just stares at her reflection in the shiny steel tray. Then she shakes it off and laughs like it’s nothing.
“You girls should definitely go,” Ruchi says finally, her tone firm, almost insistent. “For your wedding, Tulip, there’s no one better. The way he takes measurements… it’s like he knows what you’ll look like before you even do. When I wear his dresses, it feels like…” She trails off, searching for words, her fingers tracing the embroidery at her neckline. “…like the dress is guiding me, not the other way around.”
Rachna chuckles lightly at her sister’s words. “Such dramatics. It’s only a tailor.”
But Tulip and Priya exchange a glance. Neither says it aloud, but both notice the same thing. Ruchi’s hand doesn’t stop stroking the fabric, as though she is soothing it, or it is soothing her.
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