A woman entered with a tray full of chai and refreshments, her sari’spallucovering her head. Probably his wife.
‘Oh, there was no need for this, bhabhiji,’ I said. ‘But thank you.’
‘May I?’ Jai asked as he gestured towards the sari.
‘Of course,’ Sharanji replied. ‘It’s for you.’
Jai carefully unfolded it. ‘This is extraordinary work,’ he said, running his hand over the fabric. ‘Thank you for keeping this art alive. It’s a shame the world doesn’t even know what it’s missing. And it’s time to change that.’
Just like that, Jai seamlessly transitioned to his pitch. The air shifted. His deep, steady voice filled the room. He promised the family legacy and reach, painting a world in which kauseya would become a rare luxury. He had a sharp, magnetic presence that commanded attention; even Dadiji forgot her betel nuts.
I could only focus on the effortless authority rolling off him. The eyes glittered with passion. The sharp curve of his cheekbones. And the full lips that had been inches away from mine not too long ago.
I crossed my legs.
He handed Sharanji a file labelled ‘Financial Analysis’. ‘Let’s build something that carries the family’s legacy into the future.’
Sharanji didn’t even look at it; he already seemed charmed.
‘You talk well.’ Dadiji carved open a nut. ‘But we’re not interested.’
‘Amma, please. Let me—’
‘As long as I’m alive, my silk will not be made outside these four walls. This is my family’s tradition,and it will stay as it always has,’ she said, her tone final. ‘With the Mahalas.’ Then she added, ‘Thank you for coming.’
Sharanji lowered his head.
This is not good.
‘If keeping this tradition alive matters so much to you, why is your grandson working at a school in Patna?’ Jai asked, his tone gentle and respectful.
Her mouth twisted. ‘It’s time for you to leave, Jai sahab.’
Bringing him up was a strategy we’d discussed. But Dadiji required more … tact.
‘Dadiji,’ I said. ‘My father runs a small printing business in Banaras. His father ran it before him. And his father before that.’
She looked at me.
‘My brother was supposed to take it over. But three years ago, he almost left for Delhi because there wasn’t enough money.’ I swallowed. ‘My father had to take a loan to expand the business. To keep him. And even then, it barely worked.’
Dadiji’s hand stilled on the nut she’d been cracking.
‘Your grandson left, didn’t he?’ I asked softly. ‘Not because he wanted to. Because he had to.’
Silence.
‘There’s no money in traditional silk anymore,’ she said finally. ‘People want cheap clothes. Fast. Machine-made.’
‘But they don’t know the difference,’ Jai said. ‘They’ve never been taught to value heritage. That’s what we want to change.’
She looked sceptical.
‘My grandfather built House of Advani to bring Indian craftsmanship to the world,’ he continued.‘To make people understand what makes it special. What makes it worth preserving.’
‘For rich people in Mumbai,’ she said flatly.
‘For everyone,’ I said. ‘Because once people see Mahala silk – reallyseeit – they’ll want it. They’ll pay for it. And your grandson won’t have to choose between his family’s legacy and feeding his children.’
