The college workshop was a world away from the suffocating, tradition-bound air of the haveli. As Shivika stepped through the wide doors, the atmosphere hit her like a fresh breeze, a chaotic, beautiful symphony of female energy. The room was vast, with sunlight streaming through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air like tiny sparks of inspiration.
The air was alive with the rhythmic clack-clack of sewing machines and the melodic, overlapping chatter of women from every corner of the district. Some were young girls with dreams of the city, others were widows finding a second life, and some were like Shivika, women seeking a voice they had never been allowed to use. Across the floor, large wooden frames called Addas stood like silent sentinels, their white cotton canvases stretched so tight they vibrated like drumheads, waiting for the first transformative puncture of a needle.
Recently, my brother was diagnosed with cancer. Earlier, I used to write purely for fun, but Iโve now made some chapters paid to help support my family during this time. Iโm not sharing this for sympathy, only to ask for your support so that finances donโt become a hurdle in his treatment. Thank you for standing by me.
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