24-09-2025, 01:21 PM
(This post was last modified: 25-09-2025, 11:17 AM by IronQuill. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Raghunath tells Ramesh to mind the counter and retreats into the inner room. He closes the door, the noise of the shop dimming into a muffled hum.
Alone, he exhales slowly, savoring the discipline he just showed. He could have chased after Anjali’s sharp smile, but he didn’t.He resisted the allure of seducing that aristocratic woman. That restraint feels like strength.
He drags his fingers through his hair. The strands are still mostly white, but here and there dark ones glimmer defiantly.
He chuckles at the sight of them. When he first came to this town more than two decades ago, his body had been withered, his steps uncertain, his breath thin. A man in his eighties, already waiting for the end. Now, the mirror shows someone closer to his sixties.
His knee used to betray him with every change in weather, stiff and swollen.That old, gnawing ache, a constant companion through years of damp mornings, had simply evaporated after that particular night with the aspiring model..oh that was a night to remember.
He gives the theory a shot, stretching and bending his leg. Then, out of nowhere, he suddenly kicks his foot out, hitting the edge of a wooden table. The sudden jolt shook the room, reminding him of a strength he hadn't felt in ages. A boyish, almost impudent grin spread across his face, an expression utterly at odds with his supposed age.
Vitality hums through him. His chest feels broader, his breath fuller, his limbs eager for movement. Even his manhood stirs restlessly, it too has been gifted back its youth, demanding more, promising more. Yes, his strength was returning. His libido was getting healthier, his stamina increasing. He could fuck longer and harder now. The thought fills him with a private, almost greedy joy.
The reversal is working. Every encounter feeds him, peels away the years, polishes the dullness of old age into something sharp and alive.
The lines on his face seem a little less deep, the set of his jaw firmer. He allows himself a wider smile, a genuine expression of self-satisfaction.
The more he mates, the more potent the rejuvenation becomes. . With each encounter, each surrender of a woman to his... gift... his own clock turned backward, a subtle but undeniable reversal of time.
That's why he needs to be more careful regarding selection.No, women like Anjali, with her sharp mind and watchful eyes, is too risky.
He needs willing participants, women who crave what he offers, who won't delve too deeply into the how or the why or the demure ones ...the lonely ones..the basket cases. And he, in turn, needs to be more discerning, to choose wisely, to cultivate this resurgence with care.
He picks up the antique lace, his fingers tracing its delicate patterns. He will mend it with meticulous care, earning Anjali’s trust, but keeping her at arm's length. For now, at least. The prize might be tempting. But the stakes are just too high. It is time to harvest the ripe fruit, and not to risk the fragile shoot.
Ramesh is usually professional with the women who come to the shop. He knows how to keep his eyes down, his voice steady, his hands precise. But then there are women like Tulip,those who just have this way of turning heads the moment they step into a room. Their beauty grabs attention, whether the guy likes it or not.
![[Image: download-29.png]](https://i.ibb.co/4RN7LBrY/download-29.png)
The bell above the door jingles and Tulip steps into the workshop, Priya following a half-step behind. The air smells faintly of starch and chalk dust, the steady hum of a sewing machine filling the background. Ramesh, who has been idly rearranging a tray of threads, looks up and freezes for a beat longer than he should.
Tulip adjusts the dupatta dbangd over her shoulder, her bangles chiming softly. She looks around the shop with the calm confidence of someone used to being admired without asking for it. Priya, always on the lookout, catches Ramesh stealing a glance that lasts just a bit too long. He quickly clears his throat and tries to act busy with a ledger like nothing happened.
They walk toward the counter. Ramesh straightens, fumbling with his measuring tape. His hands move, but not with their usual precision. He flips open a blank page, pen poised, though his eyes flick again toward Tulip, then away.
Priya leans closer to her sister, covering her smile with the edge of her palm. In a quick whisper only Tulip can hear, she teases, “He’s staring at you. Look at him...he’s nervous.”
Tulip glances up, pretending to study a display of sequins. Sure enough, Ramesh is sneaking another look. His jaw tightens, and he bends suddenly to pick up a pair of scissors, as if the world might collapse if he doesn’t.
The sisters exchange a look and stifle a giggle, their shoulders brushing as they try to hold it in. Priya’s eyes dance with mischief, Tulip’s cheeks flush with secret amusement. For them, it feels like a private joke unfolding in the middle of the shop.
Ramesh, still fiddling with his tape, finally musters, “So… fittings, yes? For the wedding?” His voice cracks just slightly at the end, betraying the effort it takes to sound professional.
Priya, unable to suppress her laughter, leans closer and gives her sister a quick, sneaky pinch at the waist, inviting her to gang up on this nervous guy in front of them. Tulip gasps softly, swatting at her hand, but Priya only grins wider.
Priya arches an eyebrow, her tone dripping with mock seriousness. “Oh? And how exactly did you guess that? Do we already look like we’re carrying a baraat in our handbags?”
Tulip tries to cover her laughter with her dupatta, but her eyes shine, betraying her. Priya presses on, wickedly playful. “Or maybe you’ve been secretly keeping track of the neighborhood brides? Careful, Didi, he might start predicting your mehendi design next!”
Tulip elbows her sister, both barely containing their giggles as Ramesh fumbles with the measuring tape, his ears turning a noticeable shade of red.
“Are you a mind reader, or are you just imagining us in bridal gowns all the time?” Tulip can't resist joining in.
“Perhaps he's been practicing his wedding vows in secret,” Priya teases, reverting to a mock serious tone.
“Or maybe he's just hoping one of us will need help choosing a groom,” Tulip quips.
Ramesh, usually unflappable, is momentarily at a loss. His hands grip the measuring tape tighter, as if trying to regain a bit of control.
“Well, um… it's just an assumption,” His voice is steady, but the smallest quiver gives him away, making the sisters' grins widen.
Ramesh involuntarily shouts, “Masterji!” calling Raghunath, who is in the back room. It sounds more like a desperate cry for rescue from these two beautiful ladies, who are eating him alive with their dazzling laughs and teasing.
The curtain to the inner room rustles, and Raghunath steps into view. His tall, stooped frame, salt-and-pepper hair, and keen eyes make the sisters pause for a beat.
Tulip straightens, a spark of determination in her eyes. “Rachana and Ruchi sent us,” she informs immediately.
Raghunath arches a brow, his gaze sweeping over them. “Who?” he asks slowly, feigning ignorance, though his eyes flicker with curiosity. “I don’t seem to recall. Rachna? Ruchi?”
Priya quickly produces her phone, swiping through the gallery. “Here, Masterji. Ruchi’s wedding. Remember this lehenga?” She hands over a picture. Tulip leans forward, showing him a photo of Ruchi herself, resplendent in the bridal dress he made.
Raghunath studies the images carefully, fingers tracing the screen as if he can feel the fabric through the glass. His eyes narrow, and a slow smile spreads across his face. “Ah… now I remember,” he admits, dropping the pretense. “Of course… Ruchi. Yes, yes… the neckline, the pleats at the hem, the subtle thread embroidery across the bodice. It all comes back.”
Tulip’s heart skips a beat. “You made that? It looks like something straight off a designer runway. I want one like that, no, my choice. I’ve picked the designs myself.” She gestures to her phone, scrolling through the images she’s saved.
Raghunath leans closer, his eyes scanning each picture meticulously. “Ah… I see,” he murmurs. “The embroidery on the sleeves, the shimmer of the zari work. Notice how it catches light at every movement. The flare of the skirt must allow it to float but not collapse under its own weight. And the purple pleats. Yes, they must fall precisely here to accentuate the waistline without exaggerating the hips.”
Priya exchanges a glance with Tulip, impressed. “He really sees it,” she whispers.
Tulip grins, almost bouncing on the spot. “So… you can make it for me, right? I want the colors exactly like this, and the cut, and the sparkle, everything.”
Raghunath chuckles softly, a sound both warm and commanding. “Tulip, everything you desire, I can make it. But I warn you, it is not simply sewing. It is breathing life into the fabric, shaping it to you, not just the picture. You will feel it before anyone else sees it.”
The sisters beam, exchanging excited glances. Priya leans back, still grinning. “Looks like we found our magician, Didi. Ready to be spoiled?”
Tulip can barely contain herself. “Oh yes. Masterji, start planning. This is my dream dress. Make it perfect.”
Raghunath picks up the images again, studying the folds, the threadwork, the embroidery. “Perfect is not just copying,” he says. “It is understanding the wearer. And you, Tulip, are going to wear it like it was always meant for you.”
Tulip smiles, brimming with excitement. “Masterji, we trust you.”
Raghunath sets the images down, his eyes sharp, already mentally dissecting the designs. “Dreams are not stitched from paper alone. We’ll start with measurements and fabric choice. Every pleat, every shimmer will find its place, tailored to you.”
The sisters exchange another excited glance, already imagining the final creation. Priya whispers, “This is going to be fun.” Tulip simply smiles, eyes sparkling, ready for the first steps toward her perfect dress.
Alone, he exhales slowly, savoring the discipline he just showed. He could have chased after Anjali’s sharp smile, but he didn’t.He resisted the allure of seducing that aristocratic woman. That restraint feels like strength.
He drags his fingers through his hair. The strands are still mostly white, but here and there dark ones glimmer defiantly.
He chuckles at the sight of them. When he first came to this town more than two decades ago, his body had been withered, his steps uncertain, his breath thin. A man in his eighties, already waiting for the end. Now, the mirror shows someone closer to his sixties.
His knee used to betray him with every change in weather, stiff and swollen.That old, gnawing ache, a constant companion through years of damp mornings, had simply evaporated after that particular night with the aspiring model..oh that was a night to remember.
He gives the theory a shot, stretching and bending his leg. Then, out of nowhere, he suddenly kicks his foot out, hitting the edge of a wooden table. The sudden jolt shook the room, reminding him of a strength he hadn't felt in ages. A boyish, almost impudent grin spread across his face, an expression utterly at odds with his supposed age.
Vitality hums through him. His chest feels broader, his breath fuller, his limbs eager for movement. Even his manhood stirs restlessly, it too has been gifted back its youth, demanding more, promising more. Yes, his strength was returning. His libido was getting healthier, his stamina increasing. He could fuck longer and harder now. The thought fills him with a private, almost greedy joy.
The reversal is working. Every encounter feeds him, peels away the years, polishes the dullness of old age into something sharp and alive.
The lines on his face seem a little less deep, the set of his jaw firmer. He allows himself a wider smile, a genuine expression of self-satisfaction.
The more he mates, the more potent the rejuvenation becomes. . With each encounter, each surrender of a woman to his... gift... his own clock turned backward, a subtle but undeniable reversal of time.
That's why he needs to be more careful regarding selection.No, women like Anjali, with her sharp mind and watchful eyes, is too risky.
He needs willing participants, women who crave what he offers, who won't delve too deeply into the how or the why or the demure ones ...the lonely ones..the basket cases. And he, in turn, needs to be more discerning, to choose wisely, to cultivate this resurgence with care.
He picks up the antique lace, his fingers tracing its delicate patterns. He will mend it with meticulous care, earning Anjali’s trust, but keeping her at arm's length. For now, at least. The prize might be tempting. But the stakes are just too high. It is time to harvest the ripe fruit, and not to risk the fragile shoot.
Ramesh is usually professional with the women who come to the shop. He knows how to keep his eyes down, his voice steady, his hands precise. But then there are women like Tulip,those who just have this way of turning heads the moment they step into a room. Their beauty grabs attention, whether the guy likes it or not.
The bell above the door jingles and Tulip steps into the workshop, Priya following a half-step behind. The air smells faintly of starch and chalk dust, the steady hum of a sewing machine filling the background. Ramesh, who has been idly rearranging a tray of threads, looks up and freezes for a beat longer than he should.
Tulip adjusts the dupatta dbangd over her shoulder, her bangles chiming softly. She looks around the shop with the calm confidence of someone used to being admired without asking for it. Priya, always on the lookout, catches Ramesh stealing a glance that lasts just a bit too long. He quickly clears his throat and tries to act busy with a ledger like nothing happened.
They walk toward the counter. Ramesh straightens, fumbling with his measuring tape. His hands move, but not with their usual precision. He flips open a blank page, pen poised, though his eyes flick again toward Tulip, then away.
Priya leans closer to her sister, covering her smile with the edge of her palm. In a quick whisper only Tulip can hear, she teases, “He’s staring at you. Look at him...he’s nervous.”
Tulip glances up, pretending to study a display of sequins. Sure enough, Ramesh is sneaking another look. His jaw tightens, and he bends suddenly to pick up a pair of scissors, as if the world might collapse if he doesn’t.
The sisters exchange a look and stifle a giggle, their shoulders brushing as they try to hold it in. Priya’s eyes dance with mischief, Tulip’s cheeks flush with secret amusement. For them, it feels like a private joke unfolding in the middle of the shop.
Ramesh, still fiddling with his tape, finally musters, “So… fittings, yes? For the wedding?” His voice cracks just slightly at the end, betraying the effort it takes to sound professional.
Priya, unable to suppress her laughter, leans closer and gives her sister a quick, sneaky pinch at the waist, inviting her to gang up on this nervous guy in front of them. Tulip gasps softly, swatting at her hand, but Priya only grins wider.
Priya arches an eyebrow, her tone dripping with mock seriousness. “Oh? And how exactly did you guess that? Do we already look like we’re carrying a baraat in our handbags?”
Tulip tries to cover her laughter with her dupatta, but her eyes shine, betraying her. Priya presses on, wickedly playful. “Or maybe you’ve been secretly keeping track of the neighborhood brides? Careful, Didi, he might start predicting your mehendi design next!”
Tulip elbows her sister, both barely containing their giggles as Ramesh fumbles with the measuring tape, his ears turning a noticeable shade of red.
“Are you a mind reader, or are you just imagining us in bridal gowns all the time?” Tulip can't resist joining in.
“Perhaps he's been practicing his wedding vows in secret,” Priya teases, reverting to a mock serious tone.
“Or maybe he's just hoping one of us will need help choosing a groom,” Tulip quips.
Ramesh, usually unflappable, is momentarily at a loss. His hands grip the measuring tape tighter, as if trying to regain a bit of control.
“Well, um… it's just an assumption,” His voice is steady, but the smallest quiver gives him away, making the sisters' grins widen.
Ramesh involuntarily shouts, “Masterji!” calling Raghunath, who is in the back room. It sounds more like a desperate cry for rescue from these two beautiful ladies, who are eating him alive with their dazzling laughs and teasing.
The curtain to the inner room rustles, and Raghunath steps into view. His tall, stooped frame, salt-and-pepper hair, and keen eyes make the sisters pause for a beat.
Tulip straightens, a spark of determination in her eyes. “Rachana and Ruchi sent us,” she informs immediately.
Raghunath arches a brow, his gaze sweeping over them. “Who?” he asks slowly, feigning ignorance, though his eyes flicker with curiosity. “I don’t seem to recall. Rachna? Ruchi?”
Priya quickly produces her phone, swiping through the gallery. “Here, Masterji. Ruchi’s wedding. Remember this lehenga?” She hands over a picture. Tulip leans forward, showing him a photo of Ruchi herself, resplendent in the bridal dress he made.
Raghunath studies the images carefully, fingers tracing the screen as if he can feel the fabric through the glass. His eyes narrow, and a slow smile spreads across his face. “Ah… now I remember,” he admits, dropping the pretense. “Of course… Ruchi. Yes, yes… the neckline, the pleats at the hem, the subtle thread embroidery across the bodice. It all comes back.”
Tulip’s heart skips a beat. “You made that? It looks like something straight off a designer runway. I want one like that, no, my choice. I’ve picked the designs myself.” She gestures to her phone, scrolling through the images she’s saved.
Raghunath leans closer, his eyes scanning each picture meticulously. “Ah… I see,” he murmurs. “The embroidery on the sleeves, the shimmer of the zari work. Notice how it catches light at every movement. The flare of the skirt must allow it to float but not collapse under its own weight. And the purple pleats. Yes, they must fall precisely here to accentuate the waistline without exaggerating the hips.”
Priya exchanges a glance with Tulip, impressed. “He really sees it,” she whispers.
Tulip grins, almost bouncing on the spot. “So… you can make it for me, right? I want the colors exactly like this, and the cut, and the sparkle, everything.”
Raghunath chuckles softly, a sound both warm and commanding. “Tulip, everything you desire, I can make it. But I warn you, it is not simply sewing. It is breathing life into the fabric, shaping it to you, not just the picture. You will feel it before anyone else sees it.”
The sisters beam, exchanging excited glances. Priya leans back, still grinning. “Looks like we found our magician, Didi. Ready to be spoiled?”
Tulip can barely contain herself. “Oh yes. Masterji, start planning. This is my dream dress. Make it perfect.”
Raghunath picks up the images again, studying the folds, the threadwork, the embroidery. “Perfect is not just copying,” he says. “It is understanding the wearer. And you, Tulip, are going to wear it like it was always meant for you.”
Tulip smiles, brimming with excitement. “Masterji, we trust you.”
Raghunath sets the images down, his eyes sharp, already mentally dissecting the designs. “Dreams are not stitched from paper alone. We’ll start with measurements and fabric choice. Every pleat, every shimmer will find its place, tailored to you.”
The sisters exchange another excited glance, already imagining the final creation. Priya whispers, “This is going to be fun.” Tulip simply smiles, eyes sparkling, ready for the first steps toward her perfect dress.
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