But he also never dirtied it like his… his mind stopped working as she emerged. Lightning wrapped inside a rain cloud. The forest green of the ensemble gleamed against her skin, the lilac flowers blooming to life all over her. She held her blouse in place with her hands.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t seem to tie the strings at the back.”
He strode around her and was met with the dark tumble of her hair. His hands were shaking. He had never had a problem dressing up models or tying their blouses the right way. Now, here, when he pushed her hair away and met her naked back, memories of Patan, along with the hopes of a future, made his pulse quicken.
“I still have to finish the second seam,” he grumbled, hoping to catch himself. He tied the knots on the top and bottom strings holding the blouse together, and loved the way they creased her flesh. Then, without fear of her sensitivities, he adjusted her dupatta, cupping the balls of her shoulder. They were already straighter than they were the last time she had worn him.
“Does it fit well?”
She swayed from foot to foot, a frown marring her forehead as she swayed to the left.
“What’s wrong?”
“The ghaghra’s left side feels heavier…”
Nilay came around her and held her hand up — “Can you twirl for me?”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
“If I wanted entertainment, Doctor, I would ask you to sing. Twirl. I sense there is a mismatch in the panels,” his eyes went to the hem of the ghaghra. It swished as she twirled. The skirt wasn’t falling in a clean circle. Nilay unbuttoned his cuffs and started rolling his sleeves, walking around her and reaching for his measuring tape. His eyes remained on the length of the ghaghra, looking so minutely skewed to the left that it was almost invisible.
“Ritu, one minute, please?”
She held her arms out — “Am I your mannequin now?”
He smiled, not taking his eyes off that spot he had caught as the culprit. The joint between two panels of the skirt, invisible in the design but not to his eyes. He bent down on one knee and measured, running the tape from the sliver of creamy skin at her waist down to the hem. He got up, walked around, and kneeled by her right flank, repeating the measurement.
0.2 mm.
“Fuck, you rookie.” He muttered to himself.
“Excuse me?”
He threw the tape around his neck and rose to his feet, sheepish. How was he to explain it without making a fool of himself?
She raised her eyebrows.
“I made a rookie mistake,” he found himself admitting.
“Really?” She swished from side to side in front of the mirror. “Did you stitch double the fabric on the left side?”
“I didn’t line up the nicks right.” He scratched the back of his neck, looking at her like she would laugh at him. Her mouth pursed in a pout. Of course it would. She did not understand the baby-level goof-up he would have been thrashed for in sewing class.
“What does that mean. Some couture talk for code blue?”
“Mmm…”
“What? Tell me,” she smiled, slowly, that kryptonite that worked like magic. Lose wars? Oh, yes. And his pride.
“We make nicks in our patterns, very tiny cuts on the sides,” he explained. “When they are copied on fabric, we match those nicks to join two pieces.”
Her eyes widened. “You knowingly put cuts on your creations?”
“They are not visible to you. They are like puzzle pieces only we can understand the joint origins of. Two cuts need to align perfectly for the two pieces to come together. Even a millimetre’s mismatch and… this happens.” He glanced down at her left flank. She followed his gaze and moved again, swishing from side to side. Her ghaghra swished with her, looking imbalanced in its flare.
“Two nicks have moved in this panel. It’s the equivalent of doing your shirt buttons wrong,” he harrumphed. “That is why one is slightly longer than the other and feels heavier. I’ll correct it…”
