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Now, three years later, she was walking into Suhas Kala Mandir. The shop was a cave of wonders. Bolts of silk leaned like tired soldiers against wooden shelves. The air smelled of cardamom, old paper, and the faint, primal scent of natural dyes. The owner, a rotund man named Suhas himself, recognized her immediately.

She touched the silver bindi on her forehead. She touched the gold border of the saree. She thought of the old weaver in Yeola, dead now, who had poured his last months into this cloth. She thought of her daughter, three oceans away, who would open her parcel and smell the cardamom of Suhas Kala Mandir. She thought of her mother-in-law, who would probably clutch her pearls if she saw a widow in a Paithani.

When Aniket died of a sudden cardiac arrest, the machine stopped. Her mother-in-law, Sharada, had moved to her eldest son’s house in Kolhapur. Ritu had gone back to the US. Her son, Kabir, was lost in his start-up in Bengaluru. And Meera was left in the three-bedroom flat, a museum of a life she no longer knew how to live.

Memory jabbed her. “Yes. A green Banarasi .” Now, three years later, she was walking into

Then she stood in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the room.

“The one with the kalka design,” he nodded. “What can I do for you today?”

“Meera-tai!” he beamed, wiping his hands on his white kurta . “It has been… fifteen years? You came with your mother-in-law to buy a saree for Ritu’s graduation.” The air smelled of cardamom, old paper, and

“It’s from a special batch,” Suhas said quietly. “The weaver was an old man from Yeola. He died last month. This is his last masterpiece.”

Meera gasped. “It’s… it’s like wearing the night sky.”

Her destination was Tilak Road, a spinal cord of old Pune where shops had been in the same families for over a century. She wasn’t going to a mall. She was going to Suhas Kala Mandir , a name her mother had whispered to her on her wedding day. “For your trousseau,” her mother had said. “The best Paithani in the world.” She touched the gold border of the saree

The old Meera would have said no. The old Meera, the one who had spent twenty-five years as the perfect suhagan in a joint family in Nashik, would have consulted her husband first, then her mother-in-law, then the phases of the moon. But that Meera had buried her husband, Aniket, three years ago. And then, slowly, she had buried the version of herself that existed only in relation to him.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Ritu: “Ma, did you get the saree? Send a pic!”