The scent of drying starch and warm fabric clung to the walls of Panna Tailors like history.
The ceiling fan whirred overhead in tired circles, stirring the smell of freshly ironed cotton and old ambition.
In the far corner, light from the cracked glass window splashed over Iraaya's face as she worked.
She wasn't just stitching clothes anymore.
She was weaving her becoming.
It had been a year since her first day.
A year since she stood outside this modest tailoring shop, heart pounding, clothes creased with uncertainty, shawl wrapped around her like borrowed courage.
Now, her fingers danced confidently over seams and scissors, the needle following the flow she had stitched into her blood.
The rusted machine that once groaned under her touch now purred like a pet she had tamed.
Her days begans at 6:00 AM, waking on the straw mat at the municipal shelter, and ends at 9:00 PM after she returns with sore palms and aching shoulders.
But there was pride in the ache. Her muscles bore the weight of purpose.
Her spirit wore the polish of persistence.
Amma, the owner of Panna Tailors, no longer treated her as a helper , She had become a partner in silence,They spoke rarely but understood deeply, The language of cloth needed no translator.
That Tuesday morning began like any other, Iraaya had just finished tracing a lehenga pattern onto a bolt of jade green silk when the bell above the shop door chimed, The sound was delicate, but it sliced through the sewing room like a blade.
She looked up.
A woman stepped in.
She didn't belong to the local crowd. Her dupatta was pinned perfectly, a branded clutch rested on her wrist ,and her heels clicked on the dusty floor with unapologetic confidence. Her makeup was subtle, professional. But her eyes sharp and scanning betrayed that she wasn't here for tailoring alone.
Amma straightened up from the counter, wiping her hands on a faded cloth.
"Good morning," she said, her tone neutral, neither servile nor warm.
The woman didn't return the greeting immediately. Her gaze had found Iraaya, who was now folding a freshly hemmed sari blouse with the kind of care one gives to sacred things. She walked closer, watching Iraaya with quiet intensity.
"You did that?" she asked, pointing to the blouse.
Iraaya looked at Amma, unsure if she was supposed to respond.
"Yes," Amma said simply.
The woman tilted her head slightly.
"The seam work is clean. And the finishing... it looks like machine embroidery, but it's hand-stitched?"
"Yes," Iraaya said, her voice barely above a whisper. A silence stretched.
The woman took another step forward.
"What's your name?"
"Iraaya."
"I'm Aanya Kohli. My sister's husband runs a mid-sized design house in South Kairos. We make wedding couture, mostly Indo-Western. We're expanding. I handle recruitment and collaborations."
She paused, her eyes flicking toward the sketchpad resting near Iraaya's sewing station. On it was a half- finished design for a fusion anarkali with asymmetrical hems.
"You designed this too?" Iraaya nodded slowly.
Aanya smiled for the first time, soft but unmistakably impressed.
"It's not polished. But it's raw. In the best way. You see the garment in three dimensions. That's not common. Where did you study?"
"Nowhere," Iraaya said, lowering her eyes.
"I just... practiced. Watched."
There was a pause.
The kind that feels like a door creaking open.
"Would you be interested in a job? Paid, of course. Not as a helper. As a trainee designer. You'd assist senior designers, learn the craft properly, work on live pieces."
Amma watched quietly.
Her face unreadable.
Iraaya's heart, however, began to thrum with something that felt dangerously like hope.
"What would I have to do?" she asked.
"Just keep doing what you're doing. Only bigger. More professional. We'd train you. And yes, you'd earn enough to provide a comfortable life for yourself."
The municipal shelter. Her mat. Her shared dinner with Vicky. The tin ceiling above her. It flashed through her mind, then faded.
"Yes," Iraaya said, her voice still shaking.
"Yes, I would love to."
Aanya handed her a visiting card. Gold font. Clean design.
Elysian Drapes
Design House | Kairos
"Come by Thursday morning. Trial day. If you do well, you start Monday." And then she was gone.
The bell chimed once more, leaving behind the scent of perfume and new beginnings.
Amma said nothing for a long time. Then, softly, almost like a stitch being tied off:
"Go, girl. Learn how the world works. You already know how the thread works."
That night, Iraaya didn't go straight to the shelter. She walked. Aimlessly. Her jute bag heavy against her shoulder, her breath fogging in the cold dusk air. The city buzzed around her like a neon-lit orchestra.
She looked up at a billboard featuring a tall, fair model draped in a gold lehenga, face frozen in elegance. Someday, she thought.
Not just to make clothes like that. To make her name a label. To make dreams wearable.
Back at the shelter, Vicky noticed the shift immediately.
"You got that sparkle look," she said, peeling a banana.
"Got offered a job."
"At Panna Tailors?"
"No. Somewhere new. A real company. Design house." Vicky whistled.
"Damn, girl. You about to blow up. Just don't forget me when you're famous."
Iraaya laughed, curling into her blanket.
The shawl, Manaly's shawl, laid over her legs like a silent witness. She whispered her sister's name into the night.
She wasn't leaving the struggle behind.
She was stitching it into her story.
And this was only the first thread.
And as she drifted off to sleep, she could almost feel the city shifting around her but in tune. As if the city was finally humming her song.
The next morning, the sun rose like melted brass over Kairos, pouring heat into the cracks of every pavement and the hollows of every dream.
Iraaya was already up.
She had barely slept, Not from worry but anticipation.
Her mind replayed the conversation with Aanya like a stitched loop: every word, every look, every possibility.
She sat at the edge of the municipal tap, splashing cold water on her face, rubbing her hands briskly, as if she could scrub away the life she was about to leave behind.
Her reflection in the steel bucket looked different today. Same tangled hair. Same tired eyes. But behind them something new. Something alive.
"I don't have the luxury to fail," she whispered to herself.
Inside the shelter, Vicky was still snoring lightly, arms sprawled, red hair sprawled like defiance on her thin pillow. Iraaya folded her shawl carefully, kissed the corner of it like a sacred relic, and tucked it inside her jute bag. As she left, she looked back once.
The shelter was just walls. Just noise. Just air. But in those walls, a fire had been lit. And now it was moving.
Back at Panna Tailors, Amma was ironing a blouse when Iraaya arrived earlier than usual.
"You're early," Amma said, not looking up.
"I'm leaving a little early today," Iraaya replied, brushing the dust off a wooden stool.
Amma's silence stretched again, long and thoughtful.
"You'll need a portfolio," Amma said suddenly.
"Sketches. Embroidery samples. Hem work. Anything."
"I don't have-"
"You have hands," Amma interrupted, "and fabric."
For the next two hours, they worked like women possessed.
Amma pulled out scraps of raw silk, net, georgette.
Iraaya threaded the needle with her own nerves, her fingers trembling. She recreated her best sketches on fresh sheets, embroidered borders on scraps, sewed pleats with measured precision.
Each thread was a silent declaration: I'm not just a girl from Jhirkala.
She was more.
By 10:00 AM on Thursday, Iraaya stood on the other side of the city, outside a building with a glass façade that gleamed like promise.
The golden letters of Elysian Drapes were etched into the door sleek, minimal, loud in its quiet.
She wiped her palms on her kurta and stepped inside. Cool air hit her. Soft jazz played somewhere above. There were mannequins in the foyer, dressed in chiffon masterpieces. The walls were lined with portraits of models walking ramps. And in the centre behind a curved mahogany desk was a receptionist who looked like she belonged on a magazine cover.
"Appointment?" she asked without looking up.
"I'm here for the trial. Aanya Kohli."
The woman tapped her screen. "Iraaya Zala?"
Zala.
The name sounded too heavy in such an elegant place.
"Yes."
"Third floor. Ms. Kohli is waiting."
As she stepped into the elevator, her heart beat in her throat. But instead of choking, it reminded her why she came.
For Manaly. For herself. For all the girls who didn't get to dream with full stomachs.
Aanya was waiting inside a large studio, light flooding through long windows. Designers bustled around mannequins. Fabric swatches hung on mood boards.
There was energy here fast, furious, fragrant with ambition.
"You made it," Aanya said, walking over in heels that clicked like a clock counting down.
"I brought my samples."
Aanya flipped through the sketchbook, touched the hem embroidery, tilted her head at the draped neckline sketch. "This is raw, but... sincere." That word again.
"You're not trained, but you're not afraid either." Aanya waved a young assistant over.
"Show Iraaya the dye room, the cutting section, and then let her observe the stitching line."
And just like that, she was in.
In a place where things were built.
Where nothing about her was familiar.
And yet everything felt right.
By 5:00 PM, her head was spinning. She had watched women slice fabrics with laser cutters, attach sequins with tweezers, pin gowns onto mannequins like sculptors dressing gods.
She hadn't said much all day. But she had taken notes. Mental notes. Emotional notes. This was what she had always wanted.
Not luxury. Not fame. But meaning.
That night, she returned to the shelter slower, more tired than usual. But not from fatigue. She was full. Of direction. Of purpose.
And when Vicky asked how it went, Iraaya just smiled.
"Good,"
"The kind of good that scares you."
"Then hold on to it," Vicky whispered.
"The good ones don't last long unless you fight."