Meena saw an in. “Did you teach this to your daughter?”
Uma shook her head. “She decided to learn from YouTube. She’s a femme lesbian and loves all of this.”
“I helped Kam when she couldn’t figure out pleating from videos,” Sabina said.
“I named her Kamaladevi after an Indian social justice warrior, and she’s known to the world as Kam thanks to these two,” Uma explained.
“OK, let’s see how you look.” Tanvi pulled Meena back by the shoulders so they could see her whole figure in the vanity mirror.
Meena didn’t recognize herself from the neck down. The sari was dramatic in the way it fell around her with little peeks of skin at the waist. “How do you walk in this?”
“Carefully,” Tanvi said.
Meena looked at Tanvi through the mirror, their faces next to each other. She scanned their features for similarities. The shapes of their eyebrows, the lengths of their noses, their hairlines where the forehead met the scalp. Nothing conclusive.
“What do you think?” Uma asked.
She looked like someone else, someone more glamorous, more graceful. She could see herself as an Indian woman. She fit with these three behind her. The four of them didn’t look alike, but there was a similarity to their skin tones, the shapes of their foreheads, the way the bones sat in their cheeks. She blinked to clear the wetness in her eyes. “It fits.”
“You are beautiful.” Tanvi’s eyes watered. “Made to wear a sari. Like Hema Malini.”
“Who?”
“I know this is not because of your age but your lack of familiarity with old Bollywood,” Tanvi said, “so I won’t take offense.”
“Hema Malini is not old Bollywood,” Sabina argued. “Nargis was the original.”
“We should watch movies with you.” Tanvi clapped her hands together. “They have subtitles.”
“OK, now you try.” Uma removed the safety pins and unfurled the silk.
Meena saw herself in only an oversize cropped blouse made from the same fabric as the sari and a fitted skirt that brushed the tops of her feet.
“Here you go.” Tanvi handed the pile of silk to Meena.
“Uh.” She didn’t know what to do, hadn’t been paying attention.
The three of them laughed.
“I’ll text you a few YouTube videos,” Uma said.
“You can keep all of this.” Tanvi took the silk from her and began to unfurl it.
“Oh,” Meena said. “I could buy my own.”
“Don’t be silly. That’s not how things work here. The right response to a gift is to say thank you.” Tanvi made Uma hold the edges of the yards-long silk and layered it together into a neat fold.
Meena nodded. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And don’t take out the pins from the blouse when you change out of it. My chest is three times bigger than yours, so I’ll sew the blouse to your size.”
Meena put the armload of orange silk on the bed.
“Do you even need to wear a bra?” Uma asked. “Because if I was that flat chested, I wouldn’t bother.”
“You still barely bother,” Sabina said. “I keep telling you that you will regret it when you’re seventy and your boobs are hanging to your knees.”
“I accept my body as it ages.” Uma patted her belly. “Gravity can have its way with me. I’d rather be comfortable. Besides, who’s going to care what my breasts look like twenty years from now?”