“Good to know,” she entered his space, this time her eyes roving everything all at once. Nilay closed the door, pushing his hands inside his pockets as she went around exploring. He gaped. It was surreal how the store downstairs with all its finery had not caught her eye but his half-finished pieces of work did. She was touching the mannequins, rubbing fabrics between her fingers, walking down the glass wardrobe full of his old archived pieces, humming.
She was not that great at singing, but her humming… Nilay smiled at the vibrations. They could soothe him from even a heart attack.
“Hmm mmm mmm… tarse dil…” she crooned. “New song alert,” Ritu smiled, eyes on an unfinished ghaghra, cut out and hanging in the wardrobe. “Saawan barse tarse dil. Listen to it, it’s moody and a little playful. But not typical tip-tip barsa paani.”
“Noted.”
She reached his workstation and ran her palm down his ancient sewing machine.
“This is rusted.” She turned to him. “You use this?”
“It was my mother’s.”
He had never told that to anyone. They all knew it meant something to him because he wasn't known to hold onto anything outdated. Nobody knew what.
“Do you work on this?” She smiled, turning the wheel one way and then the other. “Sorry, am I allowed?”
Nilay nodded — “Go all out. It won’t break. It’s the sturdiest thing in this world.”
“Your mother taught you how to sew?”
“Yes.”
“It’s clear who taught you how to sew, cook, and behave.” Ritu looked up from her exploration. “At least one out of ten times when you behave nicely.”
He smiled.
“NiP on first and second floor, Nilay here,” she observed, picking up the wide golden border left in snips on his table. She studied it, running her thumb over its textured surface.
“The fibres on that one are made of real gold, woven together by generational khinkhaab weavers from Benaras.”
“It looks rich, like a… tapestry.” She glided her fingers reverently across the glinting fibres. Then set the snippet down. “What did you want to show me?”
“Done seeing this?” He circled around them.
She ran a hand over his sewing machine. “You mean there’s more?”
“Come here, Doctor,” he held his hand out. She frowned, but came to him. He kept his hand out, and she finally took it. Nilay clasped it and tugged her down the main area and into the back room where his showstopper piece was housed. Where he went to relax. Where he sat to think. Where he slept to find inspiration.
“Are we going into an actual cave now?” She needled. He didn’t take the bait, sliding the door open and stepping inside. Her mouth dropped open in a gasp. The wide room’s walls were adorned with paintings, hangings, pieces of ancient Indian sketches. From Raja Ravi Varma to Kishangarh style paintings, from Picchwais to Miniatures — most of them were originals, some dupes because he hadn’t been able to find originals. A large, oval, floor-to-ceiling gilded mirror rested on the wall in between them, his one true grounding space in a room where ideas could run wild and possibilities seem too many.
Ritu walked across that mirror and did not even glance at herself. Any woman he knew would have taken a peek before passing. Not this one. But why was he surprised? Hadn’t he known her enough by now?
“These are… are they real? I mean, original?”
“Mmm.”
She reached out and ran her fingers over the frame of a Kishangarh painting, with a line of milkmaids, wearing ghaghras in muted earthy reds and oranges, chunaris so translucent that the folds were perfectly scrawled, waists not thin but curvy. They were all holding pots over their heads, their arms holding them up, looking full. Beautiful. He caught Ritu’s hand and she whirled.
“Come here,” he tugged her five steps back from the wall, until she was standing in front of the mirror. He stood behind her, taking both her forearms and raising them.
“What are you doing?” She resisted.
“Do you trust me?” He asked, taking her arms up. They loosened, and he gently took them up. Up, up, up, over her head.
She didn’t say it, but her arms went stiff. He ran his palms down the outside of them, letting her loosely rolled sleeves glide down with them until they were bunched above her elbows. He kept going, taking his fingers down to her waist, which nipped so prettily that he always wanted to have his hands on it, tracing down to the curve of her hips. Their gazes remained connected in the mirror.
“Now you see what I see?” He asked, taking his gaze to the paintings and sketches surrounding the mirror.
