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.
Pune was waking up. The air was thick with the scent of kadaknath tea from a roadside stall and the sweet, cloying smell of marigolds strung into garlands outside the Dagdusheth Temple. Auto-rickshaws honked in a chaotic, musical language that only Punekars understood. Meera didn’t take an auto. She walked. She touched the silver bindi on her forehead
When she reached her flat, she didn’t make tea. She didn’t turn on the TV. She went to her bedroom, closed the door, and laid the twilight-blue Paithani on her bed. She thought of her daughter, three oceans away,