A minute later, Ritu replied with a string of emojis: a crying face, a heart, a saree, an Indian flag. Then a text: “Who ARE you??”
“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.” A minute later, Ritu replied with a string
Jani. The word meant ‘roots’ in Marathi. Meera almost laughed. Ritu, who had once refused to eat bhakri because it was “too rustic,” who had changed her name from Rituparna to Rita in tenth grade, was now asking for roots. Life, Meera had learned, was a boomerang of ironies. He died last month
For the next hour, Meera was transported. She ran her fingers over silks that shimmered like peacock feathers—deep blues, fiery oranges, the red of a bride’s kumkum . Each saree had a story. The moru (peacock) motif for grace. The asawalli (flower) for fertility. The narali (coconut) for prosperity. Her mother-in-law had once explained all of this to her. At the time, Meera had found it tedious. Now, she found it profound. Meera almost laughed