24-09-2025, 07:58 AM
(This post was last modified: 24-09-2025, 07:59 AM by IronQuill. Edited 2 times in total. Edited 2 times in total.)
Ramesh leans against the counter, pretending to arrange a tray of zippers when in truth his eyes follow the women who drift in and out of the workshop. The work feels boring at times but it has its perks.
Like the young college girl who comes in for blouse fittings. She always laughs too loudly at his silly jokes, and once, when Ramesh measured a sleeve for her, she teased, “Careful, Masterji, don’t stitch me tighter than my exam schedule.” Her wink lingered with him all day.
Or the married woman who drops by with her neighbor, carrying half-finished pieces tucked under her arm. She leans a little too close when showing where the seam needs fixing, her dupatta brushing his hand. “You have good eyes, Ramesh,” she says, smiling knowingly. He pretends to focus on the stitching, but her perfume clings to him long after she leaves.
Then there’s Mrs. Patel, the formidable matriarch of her family, who only speaks in commands and criticisms. Yet, even she offered a sliver of interest one day, commenting on the neatness of his work. “Your stitches are straighter than my son-in-law’s spine,” she’d declared, leaving Ramesh both amused and slightly intimidated.
He sighs, pushing the tray of zippers a little further down the counter. It’s not that he’s actively pursuing anything. It’s just... the workshop is a small oasis of connection.
A bell above the door jingles, announcing a new customer. Ramesh straightens up, ready with his smile. A woman enters, her eyes scanning the room with a practiced air of assessment. She is in her late thirties, a silk sari dbanging her with effortless grace. She doesn’t look like anyone who usually frequents a tailor shop.
“I have a rather delicate task,” she says, her voice a low, melodious hum. She approaches the counter and unfolds a piece of fabric, revealing a fragile, antique lace. “It’s torn. Can you repair it, Masterji? Without leaving a trace?”
The request is beyond Ramesh’s skill. Before he can reply, Raghunath Master steps forward.He takes the lace, his fingers tracing the delicate weave. He can feel the history woven into the fabric, the stories it could tell. He looks up at the woman, meeting her gaze. Her eyes are sharp, intelligent, and hold a depth that intrigues him.
“Definitely,” he says, his voice suddenly steadier. “But it will take time, and a lot of patience.”
The woman smiles, a genuine, warm smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes. “Time is something I have plenty of,” she replies. “Patience, perhaps a little less. But I trust you will do your best, Masterji?”
Raghunath nods. This isn’t just about stitching lace. This is about earning the trust of a woman who sees him as a craftsman capable of preserving something precious.
He feels the familiar, almost primal hum of attraction stir within him.The instinctive allure he feels towards women. The itch to test his power, to weave a spell of lust and surrender with the very threads he uses, rises in his chest. But then, he takes a breath, forcing it down.
He scans her again. The way her sari dbangs, the subtle intelligence in her eyes, the quiet confidence in her posture. Too sharp. Too aware. He couldn’t risk exposing his other self, the weaver of desires, with her. She’s a woman who would see through his illusions, question his motives, and unravel his carefully constructed façade.
“I will treat it with the utmost care,” Raghunath says, his tone professional and devoid of the usual undercurrent. He feels a strange sense of relief washing over him as the temptation recedes. He actively suppresses the urge, and the clarity of his mind is almost startling now.
“May I ask your name, Masterji?” the woman asks, breaking his train of thought.
“Raghunath,” he replies. “And yours?”
“Anjali.” She pauses, then adds, “I’ll leave it in your capable hands, Raghunath ji. I’ll check in next week.” She leaves a small, intricately carved wooden box with him, presumably to store the lace.
He carefully examines the lace again, pulling out his magnifying glass. “I’ll need a few days,” he says. “I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
Beside him, Ramesh silently notes down the phone number and gives the woman a receipt before she leaves.
Like the young college girl who comes in for blouse fittings. She always laughs too loudly at his silly jokes, and once, when Ramesh measured a sleeve for her, she teased, “Careful, Masterji, don’t stitch me tighter than my exam schedule.” Her wink lingered with him all day.
Or the married woman who drops by with her neighbor, carrying half-finished pieces tucked under her arm. She leans a little too close when showing where the seam needs fixing, her dupatta brushing his hand. “You have good eyes, Ramesh,” she says, smiling knowingly. He pretends to focus on the stitching, but her perfume clings to him long after she leaves.
Then there’s Mrs. Patel, the formidable matriarch of her family, who only speaks in commands and criticisms. Yet, even she offered a sliver of interest one day, commenting on the neatness of his work. “Your stitches are straighter than my son-in-law’s spine,” she’d declared, leaving Ramesh both amused and slightly intimidated.
He sighs, pushing the tray of zippers a little further down the counter. It’s not that he’s actively pursuing anything. It’s just... the workshop is a small oasis of connection.
A bell above the door jingles, announcing a new customer. Ramesh straightens up, ready with his smile. A woman enters, her eyes scanning the room with a practiced air of assessment. She is in her late thirties, a silk sari dbanging her with effortless grace. She doesn’t look like anyone who usually frequents a tailor shop.
“I have a rather delicate task,” she says, her voice a low, melodious hum. She approaches the counter and unfolds a piece of fabric, revealing a fragile, antique lace. “It’s torn. Can you repair it, Masterji? Without leaving a trace?”
The request is beyond Ramesh’s skill. Before he can reply, Raghunath Master steps forward.He takes the lace, his fingers tracing the delicate weave. He can feel the history woven into the fabric, the stories it could tell. He looks up at the woman, meeting her gaze. Her eyes are sharp, intelligent, and hold a depth that intrigues him.
“Definitely,” he says, his voice suddenly steadier. “But it will take time, and a lot of patience.”
The woman smiles, a genuine, warm smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes. “Time is something I have plenty of,” she replies. “Patience, perhaps a little less. But I trust you will do your best, Masterji?”
Raghunath nods. This isn’t just about stitching lace. This is about earning the trust of a woman who sees him as a craftsman capable of preserving something precious.
He feels the familiar, almost primal hum of attraction stir within him.The instinctive allure he feels towards women. The itch to test his power, to weave a spell of lust and surrender with the very threads he uses, rises in his chest. But then, he takes a breath, forcing it down.
He scans her again. The way her sari dbangs, the subtle intelligence in her eyes, the quiet confidence in her posture. Too sharp. Too aware. He couldn’t risk exposing his other self, the weaver of desires, with her. She’s a woman who would see through his illusions, question his motives, and unravel his carefully constructed façade.
“I will treat it with the utmost care,” Raghunath says, his tone professional and devoid of the usual undercurrent. He feels a strange sense of relief washing over him as the temptation recedes. He actively suppresses the urge, and the clarity of his mind is almost startling now.
“May I ask your name, Masterji?” the woman asks, breaking his train of thought.
“Raghunath,” he replies. “And yours?”
“Anjali.” She pauses, then adds, “I’ll leave it in your capable hands, Raghunath ji. I’ll check in next week.” She leaves a small, intricately carved wooden box with him, presumably to store the lace.
He carefully examines the lace again, pulling out his magnifying glass. “I’ll need a few days,” he says. “I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
Beside him, Ramesh silently notes down the phone number and gives the woman a receipt before she leaves.
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