Thinking she was done, Aria moved away from her to go look into a mirror. “No, no, it isn’t ready yet,” Jarminder said, afraid that Aria would see her work before it was done. Aria stood back in front of her. Jarminder kneeled down again and gathered the loop of fabric that was now hanging in the front of the skirt and straightened it so that the edges of the loop perfectly matched. Just as she had done previously, she began pulling the fabric back and forth between her outstretched thumb and fingers, making sure the pleats she created by doing so were the same width and length. She took the final safety pin from her teeth and used it to pin the pleats together before forcefully tucking the section she had pinned into the petticoat and standing back to examine her work.

Aria felt like she had been wrapped in a sensual cocoon. The way the fabric hugged and pulled at her curves made her feel statuesque. She stepped in front of the full-length mirror hanging in Jarminder’s bedroom. Wrapped in thousands of years’ worth of tradition, Aria felt more feminine than she ever had before. Even though she didn’t have a single drop of Asian blood in her veins, it was the mystic spirituality of her own femininity that was staring back at her from the mirror.

Jarminder took Aria’s face in her hands and turned it to kiss her cheek. Jarminder had been acting strange the whole morning. Unlike usual, she had woken up before Aria could slip out the door. She had made breakfast already and insisted that Aria join them. Any coldness that had been there before seemed vanquished. On top of it, she had suddenly insisted on giving Aria one of her own saris. Aria, who couldn’t understand the sudden alteration in Jarminder’s mood, humored the sudden sentimentality without letting herself expect it to stay that way.