22-08-2026, 06:45 PM
The bus slowed and finally stopped at the main stand in the town. Sathyavathi and I stood up, adjusted our sarees, and moved toward the door. I held the pallu of my yellow saree carefully as I stepped down first, then waited for her.
The moment our feet touched the ground, I felt the familiar weight of eyes on us.
Men standing near the tea stall, a few waiting for other buses, two shopkeepers leaning in their doorways — all of them glanced, then looked longer than necessary. Some tried to be subtle, turning their heads only slightly. Others did not bother hiding it. Their gazes moved over the way my yellow saree sat on my hips, the shape of my heavy breasts under the yellow blouse, the same with Sathyavathi beside me. It happened every time we came to town. We had grown used to it, but it never fully disappeared.
Sathyavathi noticed as well, but she only gave a small, practised indifference and started walking.
“First we buy the sarees,” she said as we moved away from the bus stand.
“After that we give the blouses for stitching. The tailor we always go to finishes in about three hours. By the time we finish the rest of the shopping and come back, the blouses will be ready.”
I nodded and walked beside her.
That was when the realisation hit me.
In the middle of everything that had happened with Kumar — the fall in the medal room, the bathroom, the bed, the sudden escape — I had completely forgotten to bring my measurement blouse. The old blouse I always carried so the tailor could match the exact size was still at home, hanging in the cupboard. The tension and the rush had driven it out of my mind entirely.
I felt a quick flicker of irritation at myself, but I said nothing to Sathyavathi. There was no need to explain. I would simply manage when we reached the tailor. Perhaps he still had my previous measurements, or I would have to let him take them again.
“Alright,” I said, keeping my voice normal.
“Sarees first, then the blouse stitching. Let’s go.”
We continued along the busy town road, the men’s lingering glances still following us from time to time, while I quietly carried the small problem of the forgotten measurement blouse along with everything else from the morning.
The saree shop we always used was small and slightly hidden, tucked between two larger buildings on a quieter side street. From the outside it looked ordinary, almost easy to miss, but the owner kept good stock and usually gave better rates to regular customers from the villages.
Sathyavathi pushed the door open and we stepped inside. The shop was narrow but clean, with shelves of folded sarees stacked along both walls and a few more displayed on wooden stands. The air smelled faintly of new cloth and incense.
The owner, a middle-aged man with a familiar face, looked up from the counter and immediately smiled when he saw us.
“Ah, you both came again,” he said, coming around to greet us.
“Welcome, welcome. Come in, sit.”
Sathyavathi did not waste time with long greetings. She stood near the counter, adjusted her pallu, and spoke in a clear, practical tone.
“We came straight from our village only for this shop,” she said.
“There are other places in town, but we always come here because you give proper discount for regulars. Today also we expect the same. We need a few good sarees, nothing too expensive, but the rate should be better than last time. We travelled all this way through the forest, so the discount should be worth the journey.”
She said it politely, but there was a firm edge underneath — the clear message that they had other options and that loyalty deserved a better price. The owner rubbed his hands together and nodded, already calculating.
“For you both, of course, special rate,” he replied.
“Tell me what you are looking for. I will see what I can do.”
While Sathyavathi continued speaking with him about the kind of sarees and the expected discount, a young worker approached me. He looked to be in his late twenties, dark-skinned, and almost exactly my height. He gave a small, respectful smile and joined his hands briefly in greeting.
“Welcome, madam,” he said.
“I work here. Shall I show you the sarees on the first floor? The newer stock is kept upstairs. It will be easier to look properly there.”
He turned slightly toward the owner and asked,
“Shall I take madam upstairs and show the collection?”
The owner, still listening to Sathyavathi’s bargaining, waved a hand in agreement without looking away from her.
“Yes, yes. Take her up. Show the good ones.”
The young worker turned back to me and gestured toward the narrow wooden staircase at the side of the shop.
“Please come, madam. I will show you everything properly.”
I glanced once at Sathyavathi, who was still firmly discussing rates with the owner, then nodded and followed the worker toward the stairs.
The first floor of the shop was quieter and more private. Wooden shelves lined the walls, stacked with neatly folded sarees. The young worker began taking them down one by one, opening each with a practised flick of his wrists so the full length and design could be seen under the light.
“These are fresh arrivals from Kanchipuram, madam,” he said, holding up a deep green silk first.
“New stock. Very good quality. See the border work.”
He showed me several more — maroon with gold, cream with thin silver lines, a soft blue, a rich purple. Each time he spread the saree carefully across the low display table or held it up against the light. I looked at them properly, touching the material once or twice, but none of them felt right for me that day.
When I shook my head at a bright orange one, he smiled politely and said,
“Madam, some sarees only show their real beauty after they are worn. On the body the fall and the colour become different. If you wear it once, you will see.”
“It’s alright,” I replied.
“I can tell from looking. This one is not for me.”
He was not ready to leave it.
“Let me just dbang it on you for a minute, madam. I will put it properly. You only have to stand. Then you can decide.”
“No need,” I said, still polite but clear.
“I don’t want to try it.”
He continued as if he had not fully heard the refusal. He stepped closer, holding the orange saree in one hand, and reached toward the small pin that held the pallu of my yellow saree to my yellow blouse.
“It will only take a moment, madam. I will remove this and show you the difference.”
“I said no—”
Before I could finish, his fingers were already on the pin. He worked it loose from my yellow blouse. As he did so, the side of his hand and then his elbow brushed firmly across the soft curve of my right breast over my yellow blouse and the white bra beneath. The contact was not accidental. It lingered a second longer than needed. A sudden, unwanted pulse of heat moved through my chest and down toward my lower stomach. My nipples tightened inside the white bra. The unfinished ache left behind by both my husband in the morning and Kumar later in the day flared awake at once.
I stiffened.
The moment our feet touched the ground, I felt the familiar weight of eyes on us.
Men standing near the tea stall, a few waiting for other buses, two shopkeepers leaning in their doorways — all of them glanced, then looked longer than necessary. Some tried to be subtle, turning their heads only slightly. Others did not bother hiding it. Their gazes moved over the way my yellow saree sat on my hips, the shape of my heavy breasts under the yellow blouse, the same with Sathyavathi beside me. It happened every time we came to town. We had grown used to it, but it never fully disappeared.
Sathyavathi noticed as well, but she only gave a small, practised indifference and started walking.
“First we buy the sarees,” she said as we moved away from the bus stand.
“After that we give the blouses for stitching. The tailor we always go to finishes in about three hours. By the time we finish the rest of the shopping and come back, the blouses will be ready.”
I nodded and walked beside her.
That was when the realisation hit me.
In the middle of everything that had happened with Kumar — the fall in the medal room, the bathroom, the bed, the sudden escape — I had completely forgotten to bring my measurement blouse. The old blouse I always carried so the tailor could match the exact size was still at home, hanging in the cupboard. The tension and the rush had driven it out of my mind entirely.
I felt a quick flicker of irritation at myself, but I said nothing to Sathyavathi. There was no need to explain. I would simply manage when we reached the tailor. Perhaps he still had my previous measurements, or I would have to let him take them again.
“Alright,” I said, keeping my voice normal.
“Sarees first, then the blouse stitching. Let’s go.”
We continued along the busy town road, the men’s lingering glances still following us from time to time, while I quietly carried the small problem of the forgotten measurement blouse along with everything else from the morning.
The saree shop we always used was small and slightly hidden, tucked between two larger buildings on a quieter side street. From the outside it looked ordinary, almost easy to miss, but the owner kept good stock and usually gave better rates to regular customers from the villages.
Sathyavathi pushed the door open and we stepped inside. The shop was narrow but clean, with shelves of folded sarees stacked along both walls and a few more displayed on wooden stands. The air smelled faintly of new cloth and incense.
The owner, a middle-aged man with a familiar face, looked up from the counter and immediately smiled when he saw us.
“Ah, you both came again,” he said, coming around to greet us.
“Welcome, welcome. Come in, sit.”
Sathyavathi did not waste time with long greetings. She stood near the counter, adjusted her pallu, and spoke in a clear, practical tone.
“We came straight from our village only for this shop,” she said.
“There are other places in town, but we always come here because you give proper discount for regulars. Today also we expect the same. We need a few good sarees, nothing too expensive, but the rate should be better than last time. We travelled all this way through the forest, so the discount should be worth the journey.”
She said it politely, but there was a firm edge underneath — the clear message that they had other options and that loyalty deserved a better price. The owner rubbed his hands together and nodded, already calculating.
“For you both, of course, special rate,” he replied.
“Tell me what you are looking for. I will see what I can do.”
While Sathyavathi continued speaking with him about the kind of sarees and the expected discount, a young worker approached me. He looked to be in his late twenties, dark-skinned, and almost exactly my height. He gave a small, respectful smile and joined his hands briefly in greeting.
“Welcome, madam,” he said.
“I work here. Shall I show you the sarees on the first floor? The newer stock is kept upstairs. It will be easier to look properly there.”
He turned slightly toward the owner and asked,
“Shall I take madam upstairs and show the collection?”
The owner, still listening to Sathyavathi’s bargaining, waved a hand in agreement without looking away from her.
“Yes, yes. Take her up. Show the good ones.”
The young worker turned back to me and gestured toward the narrow wooden staircase at the side of the shop.
“Please come, madam. I will show you everything properly.”
I glanced once at Sathyavathi, who was still firmly discussing rates with the owner, then nodded and followed the worker toward the stairs.
The first floor of the shop was quieter and more private. Wooden shelves lined the walls, stacked with neatly folded sarees. The young worker began taking them down one by one, opening each with a practised flick of his wrists so the full length and design could be seen under the light.
“These are fresh arrivals from Kanchipuram, madam,” he said, holding up a deep green silk first.
“New stock. Very good quality. See the border work.”
He showed me several more — maroon with gold, cream with thin silver lines, a soft blue, a rich purple. Each time he spread the saree carefully across the low display table or held it up against the light. I looked at them properly, touching the material once or twice, but none of them felt right for me that day.
When I shook my head at a bright orange one, he smiled politely and said,
“Madam, some sarees only show their real beauty after they are worn. On the body the fall and the colour become different. If you wear it once, you will see.”
“It’s alright,” I replied.
“I can tell from looking. This one is not for me.”
He was not ready to leave it.
“Let me just dbang it on you for a minute, madam. I will put it properly. You only have to stand. Then you can decide.”
“No need,” I said, still polite but clear.
“I don’t want to try it.”
He continued as if he had not fully heard the refusal. He stepped closer, holding the orange saree in one hand, and reached toward the small pin that held the pallu of my yellow saree to my yellow blouse.
“It will only take a moment, madam. I will remove this and show you the difference.”
“I said no—”
Before I could finish, his fingers were already on the pin. He worked it loose from my yellow blouse. As he did so, the side of his hand and then his elbow brushed firmly across the soft curve of my right breast over my yellow blouse and the white bra beneath. The contact was not accidental. It lingered a second longer than needed. A sudden, unwanted pulse of heat moved through my chest and down toward my lower stomach. My nipples tightened inside the white bra. The unfinished ache left behind by both my husband in the morning and Kumar later in the day flared awake at once.
I stiffened.
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