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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.

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. The old Meera would have said no

She undressed slowly, shedding her grey leggings and cotton kurta . She wrapped the saree around herself. She had done this thousands of times for others—for her wedding, for festivals, for family portraits. But this time, she did it for herself. She tucked the pallu over her left shoulder, letting the moru motifs dance across her chest. She pleated the front with precision. She fastened the fall with a safety pin. And then, slowly, she had buried the version

Meera’s fingers trembled as she touched the silk. It wasn’t just fabric. It was time, crystallized. It was the patience of a man who spent six months on a single loom. It was the sweat of his brow, the rhythm of his hands, the prayer in his heart. This was India. Not the India of call centers and tech parks, but the older India, the one that believed a piece of cloth could hold a soul. Meera almost laughed

Meera smiled. She took a photo of herself in the mirror. She didn’t crop the messy bedroom in the background. She didn’t adjust the lighting. She sent it as it was.

Then she thought of Ritu. She thought of how her daughter would drape this saree for a party in San Francisco, how the Americans would touch it in awe, how Ritu would say, “It’s my mother’s.” But then she thought of something else. She thought of herself.

She put the phone down, poured herself a glass of water, and walked to the balcony. The afternoon sun was beginning its lazy descent. The city of Pune hummed below her—the honks, the prayers, the laughter, the arguments. The chaos of life.