They wrapped at 7 PM. The monsoon had finally broken, and rain lashed the courtyard. The shola flowers had collapsed into a white mush. The Baluchari was stained with red dust. Nandini was sitting on a crate, drinking flat soda water, her feet raw.

By noon, the temperature had climbed to 38°C. The second saree was a heavy Korial —a deep indigo blue with a gold border. It was beautiful, but it weighed five kilos. Sweat trickled down Nandini’s spine. The shola flowers, reacting to the humidity, began to wilt. They drooped from the ceiling like sad ghosts.

“You are not a muse,” Anjan said. “You are the one who runs the house. You are the one who argues with the vegetable vendor. You are the one who still reads Tagore but also knows how to fix the fuse.”