Chapter 10: The Fitting Room
The fitting room door clicked shut, sealing them in. The world outside—the murmur of shoppers, the piped-in Bollywood instrumental—faded to a faint hum. Here, there was only the relentless fluorescence, their reflection multiplied in the mirrored walls, and the faint, sweet-chemical smell of new fabric.
Priya set the shopping bag on the velvet stool. She didn’t look at Rohan. Her movements were efficient, automatic. Her fingers went to the pallu of her sari, the cream-colored cotton darkened in patches from the sudden downpour they’d dashed through from the car. It clung to her shoulders, outlining the strap of her blouse.
“The rain,” she said, as if explaining. Her voice was tight.
She unwound the sari with practiced speed, the wet fabric whispering as it pooled on the floor. Then the blouse. She stood there for a second in her petticoat, a simple white cotton slip, her back to him. Her shoulders were taut, the muscles defined from years of early morning yoga. A damp tendril of hair stuck to her nape.
Rohan turned his head, staring rigidly at his own reflection in the mirror. He saw a man holding two shopping bags, his face pale under the lights. He looked like a stranger.
The rustle of plastic. She was opening the package. He heard the crisp sound of new lace, the snap of elastic.
“This hook,” Priya said. Her voice was different now. Strained. “I can’t… it’s fiddly.”
He had to look. She was holding the black lace bra in front of her, still in her petticoat, struggling with the clasp at the back. Her arms were twisted at an awkward angle. Her brow was furrowed in simple, domestic frustration.
“Ma, just put it on and then I’ll help.”
“It’s easier this way,” she insisted, the stubbornness returning for a flash.
He put the bags down. The air in the small room was warm, close. He took the two ends of the bra from her. His fingers brushed against the warm skin of her upper back. She flinched, just a tiny, almost imperceptible jolt.
He hooked it. It was a simple, mechanical action. Three tiny metal eyes. His hands were steady.
“Okay,” he said, stepping back.
She slid the straps onto her shoulders, then let the petticoat fall. It puddled around her ankles. She stood in the center of the room, in the black lace, and looked at herself in the mirror.
Rohan looked away again, heat crawling up his neck. This was wrong. All of it. The sterile light, the mirrors, the intimate, awful practicality of it.
Priya didn’t move. She stared at her reflection, her expression unreadable. The lace was sleek, modern, a sharp contrast against her skin. It was nothing like the simple, practical cotton she always wore. It was a promise of a different self, a self that belonged to a time before sickness, before fear, before her son had to help her dress.
“It fits,” she said, flatly.
“Good.”
“He used to like red,” she said, still talking to the mirror. “Your father. A long time ago.”
“Great. Can we go?”
“In a minute.”
She didn’t get dressed. Instead, she walked to the shopping bag Rohan had carried and pulled out the laptop box. She placed it on the stool and just looked at it, her hand resting on the lid.
“You will show me,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “Before we go to Kolkata. How to use it. How to send emails. How to look up… things.”
“What things?”
“Doctors. Treatments. Costs.” She finally turned from the box to look at him. The vulnerability from a moment before was gone, burned away by a hard, desperate resolve. The lace suddenly looked like armor. “I cannot ask him anymore. He is too tired to pretend he knows. And you…” She trailed off, but the accusation was there. You have your own life. You have movie tickets for two.
“I’ll show you,” he said, the guilt a physical weight.
“Good.” She nodded, once. She began to dress, pulling her petticoat back on, covering the black lace. She wrapped herself in her damp sari with swift, sure motions, tucking and pleating, transforming back into his mother before his eyes. The woman in the lingerie was sealed awa
“hidden inside folded tissue paper, the laptop box under her arm. She unlocked the door. The noise of the store rushed back in, a wave of normalcy.
She walked out without looking back, leaving him alone in the bright, mirrored cage with the ghost of her scent and the echo of her permission, which felt more like a sentence.