[novelistcasanova]

We walked side by side through the busy market street. The afternoon crowd moved around us — women with shopping bags, men standing near tea stalls, the usual noise of vendors and vehicles. My yellow saree shifted against my legs with every step. The residual wetness in my maroon panties had settled into a quiet, constant reminder, but I kept my attention on the road ahead.

After a short silence I asked,
“What about Malliga? Did she also come for shopping today?”
Sathyavathi adjusted the sarees she was carrying and answered without slowing her pace.
“Malliga already finished her shopping with her husband yesterday itself. By now she must be at the temple. She said she would clean the temple floor and arrange the flowers for the evening puja. You know how particular she is about the Goddess’s place.”
I nodded. That sounded exactly like Malliga.
We continued walking until the familiar board of our regular tailor shop came into view. It was a small, narrow place we had both used for years. Directly opposite it stood a bra and panties shop, its glass front displaying various undergarments on plastic mannequins.
Sathyavathi stopped and looked across the street at the bra and panties shop.
“I need to buy a few bras and panties,” she said.
“You go inside and give the orange saree for blouse measurement. Tell him to use your old measurements. I will finish quickly across the road and come.”
I glanced once at the tailor shop and then back at her.
“Alright. I will give the saree and wait for you inside.”
Sathyavathi crossed the street toward the bra and panties shop. I turned and stepped into the regular tailor shop, the small bell above the door giving a soft ring as I entered.


A man in his early thirties looked up from the cutting table as I entered. He was clean-shaven, neatly dressed in a simple shirt, and had the practised calm of someone used to handling customers.
“Welcome, madam,” he said, stepping forward.
“Please come in.”
I glanced around the familiar small shop. The usual shelves of fabric and the old measuring tapes were still there, but the elderly tailor I always met was missing.
“Where is Venkatesh uncle?” I asked.
“He is the one who always stitches my blouses.”
The young man’s expression softened slightly.
“He is my father,” he replied.
“Venkatesh. He had a stroke last month. He is paralysed on one side now and stays at home. I have taken over the shop completely.”
I felt a moment of genuine concern.
“I am sorry to hear that. Is he improving?”
“Slowly,” he said.
“Please do not worry about your blouse, madam. I trained in Chennai for three years under a good master. I will stitch it perfectly. You will not feel any difference.”
He spoke with quiet confidence. Then he gently took the packed orange Kanchipuram saree from my hand, opened the paper wrapping, and spread the silk carefully across the large cutting table. With quick, precise movements he measured the required blouse length, marked the cloth with chalk, and cut out the blouse pieces in a few clean strokes. The orange silk pieces lay neatly on the table within minutes.
“Now I need your measurement blouse, madam,” he said, looking up.
“Or the exact measurements.”
“I do not have my measurement blouse with me today,” I told him.
“I forgot to bring it. Your father always kept my measurements in his notebook. My name is Sudha. Please check. He has stitched many blouses for me before.”
The young tailor gave a small, polite smile and shook his head.
“I do not have my father’s old measurement books, madam. And I do not need them either. Those methods are old-fashioned. I take fresh measurements for every customer and use modern cutting techniques. That way the fit is always accurate and comfortable.”
He reached under the counter and brought out a thick style book. He opened it on the table and turned a few pages, showing me different blouse designs — deep necks, boat necks, sleeveless, full-sleeve, princess-cut, and several modest everyday styles with neat finishes.
“You can choose any style you like, madam. I will stitch according to your body and the saree.”
I looked through the pages carefully. Most of the designs were either too plain or too revealing for my taste. Then I stopped at one that struck a good balance — a stylish yet modest blouse with a soft round neck, short sleeves, and clean princess seams that would give shape without being bold. It looked elegant and suitable for both temple visits and ordinary days.
“This one,” I said, pointing to the design.
“Stylish but modest. This will be fine.”
He marked the page with a small slip of paper and nodded.
“Good choice, madam. I will stitch exactly this style. Please come and stand here. I will take your measurements now.”


The young tailor smiled in a light, easy way and began talking while he prepared the measuring tape.
“Don’t look so serious, madam,” he said, chuckling softly.
“I am only going to take measurements, not steal the saree. My father used to say the customer should laugh at least once before the first measurement. Otherwise the blouse comes out too tight from the tension.”
I gave a small, polite smile in return. His tone was friendly and ordinary, the kind of casual talk that made the situation feel less formal.
“I have heard that before,” I said.
“See, you are already smiling,” he replied, still grinning.
“Good. Now the saree has to come off completely. Otherwise the measurements will not be accurate. Blouse measurements need the exact shape, not the shape under the saree.”

He stepped closer and began removing my yellow saree with practised hands. He unpinned the pallu from my shoulder first, then unwound the length from around my waist, gathering the yellow silk neatly over one arm. Within a minute the entire yellow saree was off my body and folded on the nearby chair.
I stood in the middle of the small tailor shop in only my yellow blouse, white petticoat and the maroon panties underneath.
A quiet nervousness settled over me at once. The shop was narrow and bright with the afternoon light coming through the front shutter. Anyone passing on the street could glance inside if they looked carefully. I felt suddenly exposed — not in the same raw way as earlier in the saree shop upstairs, but in a different, more ordinary and therefore more unsettling way. My heavy breasts were clearly outlined under the yellow blouse. The white petticoat sat close on my hips. There was no longer any outer layer to hide behind.

I crossed my arms loosely over my stomach, then forced them back to my sides so I would not look more uncomfortable than I already felt. The residual heat from the morning still lingered low in my body, and the sudden removal of the yellow saree made me aware of it again.
The young tailor kept his expression light and professional, as if this were the most normal step in the process.
“There. Much better,” he said cheerfully, still holding the measuring tape.
“Now I can take proper measurements. Don’t worry, madam. It will be quick.”
I remained standing where I was, nervous and exposed at the same time, waiting for him to begin.