Ananya(Student) - How I gave my measurements to the tailor(4 videos) - Scene 8-GOLD!*

[ashuezy2]

My name is Ananya. I go to college in South Campus, Delhi. Usually, you will only see me in loose hoodies and jeans. I hide inside my clothes. I like to be invisible.

But the college notice board changed everything: "Traditional Day – Compulsory Ethnic Wear."

My mother was happy. She pulled out a peach saree with a gold border. It was beautiful. But the blouse piece was just a square of fabric. I had to get it stitched. And I had a secret reason for always wearing hoodies. My body didn't make sense. I was small, but I was also... too much.

I stood outside "Renu Ladies Tailoring" in the busy market of Lajpat Nagar. The air smelled of frying samosas from the street and the dry, dusty smell of cut cloth from inside the shop.

I walked in. It was a small room lined with mirrors. Mannequins stared at me with headless necks. Masterji, an older man with glasses, was busy at a sewing machine. Grrr-tak-tak-tak.

"New blouse?" he asked without looking up.
I nodded, clutching the peach fabric. My palms were sweating.

A younger man stepped out from behind a curtain. This was Remo. He wasn't like Masterji. He had sharp eyes and a measuring tape dbangd around his neck like a snake.

"Come," Remo said. His voice was calm, but low. "Let's move to the corner. It is crowded here."
He led me to a small space behind a partition, away from the street view, but there were still people waiting outside. The space was tight.

He stood behind me first. I looked at him in the mirror. He lifted the yellow tape.


The metal tip of the tape measure was cold against my neck. It sent a shiver down my spine. Remo’s hands were warm. He didn't rush.

The rustle of the tape sliding through his fingers. Swish. The heavy breathing of the traffic outside seemed far away. Inside, it was just my own shallow breath.

He smelled of strong tea and fabric starch.

"Shoulder... fourteen," he muttered, writing in a small notebook.
He moved to my waist. He wrapped the tape tight. I held my breath.

"Waist... twenty-four," he said. He sounded surprised. "Very small."
Then, he moved up.

He brought the tape around my chest. He had to widen his arms to get around me. The tape pulled tight across the fullest part of my bust. I watched his eyes in the mirror. They widened.
He checked the number. He blinked. He loosened the tape and checked again.

Remo stopped writing. He let the tape hang loose. The silence in the corner was heavy.
"Madam," he whispered, stepping closer to my ear. "There is a problem."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "What?"
"I have seen many measurements," he said, his voice thick. "But I have never seen this. There is a huge difference. This is impossible."

He looked at my reflection, at the way my hoodie was stretched to its limit.
"How can someone have a twenty-four-inch waist and a 30H bust size?" he asked. He wasn't being polite anymore. He was staring.

He leaned in, his knuckles brushing against my side.

"Are you wearing anything else underneath?" he asked, his voice dropping to a raw whisper. "Or is this all... you?"

I couldn't speak. I just shook my head. The tape measure felt like a rope binding me. He knew my secret now.
The numbers were out in the open, and the air in the small corner became thick with a sudden, terrifying heat.