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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.

She imagined wearing this saree. Not to a wedding. Not to a temple. But just… for herself. To sit on her balcony, drinking her evening tea, the twilight blue of the silk mirroring the twilight of the day. She imagined the weight of the gold on her shoulder, the soft whisper of the pallu against her arm. She imagined not feeling like a widow, or a mother, or a daughter-in-law. Just a woman, wrapped in a masterpiece. She undressed slowly, shedding her grey leggings and

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. But this time, she did it for herself