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And then she thought of nothing at all.

She wrapped the pallu tighter around her shoulders, the gold zari catching the light. And as the shadows lengthened, Meera sat down on her plastic chair, crossed her legs, and smiled. And then she thought of nothing at all

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 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

She had spent the first year in a fog of bhog —the ritual feeding of mourners. The second year, she began to notice things. The way the afternoon sun made a ladder of light on the living room floor. The taste of a perfectly ripe Alphonso mango. The silence, which had once been oppressive, began to feel like a conversation.

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.