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Thursday: Market Day
Lakshmi woke before the alarm, not because she had to, but because she couldn’t stay asleep.
The room was dim and cool. Parvathi lay on her side, breathing evenly, one hand tucked under her cheek. Lakshmi watched her for a moment longer than necessary, then slipped out of bed.
In the bedroom, the saree Parvathi had chosen waited neatly folded on the bed, the muted gold blouse placed beside it.
Lakshmi unfolded the cotton slowly.
The saree is a warm marigold–orange drape with a soft, matte finish, likely a lightweight cotton–silk or art silk blend. Subtle self-woven floral motifs are scattered across the body, adding texture without breaking the solid tone. The border is narrow and refined, edged in a muted gold that gives just enough contrast.
She showered quickly, keeping everything efficient. No lingering, no second-guessing. She towel-dried her hair until it lay damp against her back, then rubbed a little oil into the ends—just enough to keep it from frizzing in the heat.
The blouse went on first. It wasn’t plain the way her everyday ones were—this one had a red body with a neat gold border at the sleeves, the kind of detail Parvathi noticed. The fabric held her shoulders in a clean line.
Jewelry came next, as if the small decisions could be finished early.
She chose bangles that answered the blouse: gold on the outside, red on the inside, so the color flashed only when her wrist turned. Not loud. Coordinated. Deliberate.
She slid on a thin chain, then thought better and left it off. She didn’t want anything catching at her neck in a crowd.
Only then did she begin the drape.
She smoothed the underskirt waistband once, then started the pleats—counted by feel, pressed flat with her palm, pinned so they wouldn’t shift when she walked.
Pallu, checked. Border, aligned.
She moved once around the room, testing how it held when she reached for something, when she turned, when she bent slightly at the waist. She raised her arm like she was reaching for a top shelf, then lowered it slowly. The pallu stayed anchored. The pleats didn’t fan out.
She tugged the blouse hem down a fraction and rolled her shoulders back. The bangles clicked softly—controlled sound.
Good.
In the kitchen she made coffee first, then breakfast—khara bath, quick and filling. She packed Parvathi’s lunch while the pan heated, hands busy so her mind wouldn’t be.
When Parvathi finally woke, she came in with sleep still on her face and stopped at the doorway.
Her gaze went to the saree. The one she had picked.
“You wore it,” she said softly.
Lakshmi kept her expression light. “Of course.”
Parvathi walked up and adjusted the pallu near Lakshmi’s shoulder with a small, familiar touch, as if she could tighten courage the way she tightened fabric.
“Text me when you reach,” she said.
“I will,” Lakshmi promised.
Parvathi hesitated, then leaned in and kissed Lakshmi’s forehead—quick, almost shy. “Be careful, okay?”
Lakshmi nodded. “I’ll be fine.”
Parvathi left for office with her lunchbox and her worry, leaving the house behind like a held breath.
Lakshmi stayed at the counter after Parvathi left. She rinsed the last coffee tumbler, set it on the rack, wiped the stove once, then opened her phone.
Parvathi’s calendar was shared, but until this week Lakshmi had never touched it.
The late-afternoon meeting was already blocked. The morning had a couple of small slots.
One was a 1:1.
Lakshmi tapped it and typed a short message.
Sorry—need to step out. Can we do this tomorrow? Friday 11 or 3 works.
The reply came back quickly.
Sure. 11.
Lakshmi moved the invite, then blocked the first half of the day.
OOO — 9:30 to 1:30.
She put the phone down and took out a pen.
Parvathi had been specific at breakfast.
“Chikki,” Parvathi had said. “That groundnut one. I’m craving it.”
“And aluminium foil. We’re out.”
Then, after a pause: “That fruit basket, remember? The steel one I saw last time. If it’s there, get it.”
Lakshmi wrote each item down, then added the vegetables she kept stocked.
Rice. Onions. Green chillies. Curry leaves. Coriander. Brinjal. Tomatoes.
At the bottom she wrote shampoo—green label.
Not for the market.
She underlined it once, for later.
Then she wrote another line for herself.
Something for Parvathi.
An earring, maybe.
She opened the lunch tiffin again and slipped a small steel box inside it—two pieces of kaju katli from Meena’s housewarming sweets, stacked with wax paper so they wouldn’t crumble.
Only then did she call Sheela.
Sheela picked up on the second ring. “Ready?”
Lakshmi kept her voice light. “We leaving now?”
“In fifteen I thought,” Sheela said, then clicked her tongue. “But Meena called. She just woke up. Wants one hour.”
Lakshmi held the phone a little tighter.
Meena called Sheela, not her.
She watched that thought form and refused to feed it.
“Okay,” she said. “No problem. One hour.”
“You’re fine?” Sheela asked.
“I’m fine,” Lakshmi said. “I’m ready.”
She hung up.
An hour wasn’t nothing.
Lakshmi went back to the bedroom and opened the small makeup pouch. She kept it simple, but she did it properly—powder where the skin would shine, a clean line at the eyes, lipstick blotted down until it looked like it belonged to her.
She used the eyelash curler last, careful hands, one squeeze and done.
She didn’t want to give anyone in a crowded market a reason to look twice.
When she stepped back from the mirror, the saree still read demure—marigold–orange, refined border.
Her face did not.
By the time the lift bell rang, she was at the door with her bag and the paper list folded into her wallet.
Sheela stood there in a saree that looked chosen, not thrown on—teal cotton with a small gold border, hair oiled and braided, a bindi placed perfectly in the center.
“Nice,” Lakshmi said automatically.
Sheela grinned. “You too. That looks elegant.”
Lakshmi shrugged, but she felt the compliment land.
Meena stepped out of her flat a second later, still adjusting her dupatta. She was in a mustard kurta with a maroon dupatta that matched nothing else and still worked.
“Sorry,” Meena said, not sounding very sorry.
Sheela waved it off. “Come, come.”
Meena looked at Lakshmi properly, head tilted. “I have never seen you in a kurta,” she said. “Do you always wear sarees?”
Lakshmi smiled. “No. Just this week.”
“Why?” Meena asked.
Lakshmi didn’t look at Sheela. “We ladies thought it would be fun. Saree week.”
It wasn’t the full truth, but it wasn’t a lie either.
They got into the lift together. When the doors opened downstairs, Sheela’s car was already waiting at the curb.
Lakshmi opened the front passenger door without thinking. The seatbelt, the clutch of fabric at her knees—front seat was easier in a saree.
Meena stopped behind her. “Hey,” she said, mock angry. “Why am I being sent to the back?”
Lakshmi glanced at her. “Saree needs space.”
Meena scoffed and climbed into the back. “I haven’t seen the city at all, okay?”
Lakshmi laughed once. “Fine. On the way back you sit in front.”
Meena pointed at her from the back seat like she was taking an oath. “Promise.”
Sheela started the car and pulled out.
The drive was uneventful in the way weekday Bangalore drives were uneventful—slow, noisy, full of small merges and last-second lane changes.
Traffic thickened as they hit the main road. Two-wheelers slid past on both sides. A BMTC bus took up half the lane and didn’t apologize.
Meena leaned forward between the seats, one hand hooked around the headrest. “Okay. I have a question,” she said. “Do either of you know a good gynaecologist?”
Sheela’s eyes flicked to the mirror. “Why? What happened?”
“Nothing happened,” Meena said quickly. “I went last month and the doctor kept asking me to have babies. Like that’s the solution to everything.” She made a face. “As if I’m coming there for life advice.”
Lakshmi kept her gaze on the road ahead. She didn’t turn. She let the silence hold for half a second, long enough for Sheela to step into it.
Sheela did, without missing a beat. “Yeah, all doctors are like that,” she said. “If you’re not married, they make you feel bad for being sexually active. If you’re married, they make you feel bad for not having kids. It’s like a free add-on with the consultation.”
Meena made an angry little sound. “Exactly.”
“And they say it so casually,” Sheela added, indicating right and cutting into a gap that barely existed. “Like ‘eat fruits’ level advice.”
Lakshmi adjusted the edge of her pallu at her shoulder. “Parvathi mentioned something,” she said. “There’s a site—women review gynaecs. Other women saying which doctors actually listen.”
Meena’s head lifted. “Really?”
Lakshmi nodded once. “I don’t remember the name. But she’ll know. I can ask her.”
“Please do,” Meena said, the tension in her voice easing a notch. “I just want one appointment where the solution isn’t ‘have babies’.”
Sheela gave a dry laugh. “Ambitious.”
Traffic inched. A two-wheeler slipped past too close and Sheela muttered under her breath.
Meena tried again, lighter. “Also—when will Parvathi be free? I haven’t met her yet.”
Lakshmi’s mouth curved, small. “This weekend,” she said. “She should be free.”
“Good,” Meena said. “Because I have questions.”
Sheela glanced at her in the mirror. “God help Parvathi.”
Meena ignored her and looked straight at Lakshmi. “Okay, tell me. How does it feel married to a woman? Must be nice.”
Lakshmi breathed out slowly, as if measuring the answer. “It is nice,” she said.
Meena waited.
Lakshmi kept her tone casual. “It’s… different. Men notice when something is dirty. They notice mess. But it’s harder for them to notice when everything is clean and nice.”
Sheela gave a short, approving laugh. “True.”
“With Parvathi,” Lakshmi continued, “she notices. Small things. If something is done, she says it.”
Meena’s expression softened. “That’s it. That’s the dream.”
“Men think the house runs on magic,” Sheela said. “Or on women. Same thing.”
Lakshmi looked out at the jumble of traffic and storefronts sliding past. “It’s easy to see what’s missing,” she said. “Harder to see what’s already there.”
Meena nodded like she could be seen. “Okay. I’m stealing that line.”
Sheela glanced in the mirror at Meena. “This is why I said we should leave early.”
Meena smiled, eyes half closed like she was accepting a penalty. “This is why I took back seat. Punishment. Sorry.”
Lakshmi listened, watching the road without staring. She kept the pallu anchored with her left hand when the car jerked forward, a habit that had formed in three days.
They parked on a side street a little away from the market entrance.
Sheela killed the engine and looked at both of them. “Phone. Wallet. List.”
Lakshmi tapped her bag once. “All there.”
Meena adjusted her dupatta again, checking her reflection in the window.
They stepped out and crossed with the crowd toward the market on the other side of the street—three women moving like they had done this before.
The market didn’t wait for them to arrive.
Sound hit first—vendors calling over each other, a radio playing something old and tinny, metal shutters half down on the side lanes. Then the smell: coriander crushed underfoot, wet earth from the flower piles, the sour-sweet edge of cut fruit.
Lakshmi adjusted her bag strap higher on her shoulder and followed Sheela into the mouth of the lane.
Sheela didn’t hesitate. She went straight to the flower lady as if she had an appointment.
The woman sat behind a low wooden table crowded with jasmine, marigold, pale pink roses. Her hands moved fast, twisting string around stems without looking down.
“Akka,” Sheela said, leaning in. “Malli poo. And give two rose, little marigold also. For pooja.”
The woman nodded, already reaching.
Sheela watched the hands work, then added, almost like an afterthought, “And jasmine also. Good one. Three bundles.”
The flower lady made the bundles, tied them off, and slid them toward Sheela along with the extra flowers.
Sheela paid, then tucked the pooja flowers into her bag first—careful, protective.
Only after that did she turn to Lakshmi.
“Turn around,” Sheela said.
Lakshmi blinked. “What?”
“Just—turn. I got this for you.”
Lakshmi’s reflex was old and immediate. “No, no, it’s okay,” she said, already stepping back half a foot.
The protest came out too quickly.
And under it, something else—an anxious tenderness, a fear of doing it wrong. If she resisted too much, Sheela might shrug and let it go. She might decide Lakshmi didn’t want it.
Lakshmi did want it.
Sheela’s look pinned her more effectively than any hairpin.
“For me,” Sheela said, softer. “Please.”
Lakshmi hesitated just long enough to make the refusal look real, then nodded. “Okay,” she said, quiet. “If you want.”
She turned.
Sheela lifted the jasmine and began to pin it into Lakshmi’s braid with quick, practiced fingers, her touch light but certain. Petals brushed Lakshmi’s neck, cool and slightly damp.
Lakshmi held still.
The smell rose as the flowers settled—clean, sweet, insistent. Something in her chest loosened, like a knot she hadn’t admitted was there.
She had watched women do this for each other since she was a child. She had never been the one receiving it.
Sheela stepped back, satisfied. “See,” she said. “Now you look complete.”
Lakshmi’s mouth opened and closed once. “It’s… nice,” she managed, casual tone doing its best.
Meena had been watching with a grin that was almost teasing.
When Sheela held out the last jasmine bundle to her, Meena put both hands up.
“No, no,” she said. “See, both of you are in sarees and all it matches. For me why? I am like—random only.”
Sheela didn’t even pause. “No excuse. We three are one matching set.”
Meena made a face as if she was being forced into something terrible, then turned around anyway. “Okay, okay. But if I look stupid, I’m blaming you.”
Sheela pinned the flowers into Meena’s hair more loosely, so it sat like a bright afterthought.
Meena touched it immediately, checking. “Thank you,” she said, pleased despite herself.
Stories by Iron Butterfly 