Every day. Every day ended like this. Wake up, wash up, serve, get hurt. Sheela stayed in a corner, used to the pattern of being treated like a speck of dust. She lived in constant fear of being darted by another comment that would tear her apart, giving her flashbacks of all the horrid arranged marriage sessions that ended with rejection.
There was no escape from it except sewing her mind up along magenta, yellow, and blue silk fabrics. All the tears in her eyes have dried since she was forcefully married, instead, she is filled with clouds of dreams that float her away further from reality. She dives into the world of comfort by opening that wooden box full of vibrant cotton balls, needles, and rough drawings of dress designs on worn-out papers. Zipping her lip, she lets all the heartache travel through her arm to the edge of the pipings she folds neatly. She buries all the screams of pain between the neat folds and lets herself become lost in the flow of the dress. Calling it a hobby is an understatement, it was rather surviving. Cutting her old sarees and creating little dresses was a getaway from all the restraints and helplessness.
Before marriage, she was caught by her father, who took away Sheela’s precious little wooden box with colorful cotton strings rolled in a bar. But that did not stop Sheela. She found a way to spread her love for sewing, inspiring the orphanage near her house to find their passion for sewing. Whenever she was sent to school, she found a way to run into the orphanage and find the perfect match for her dress. A penny was never asked for. After marriage, whenever she was sent off to the Bazar, she carried the newly made dresses under her arm hidden under the scarf. She made sure to meet her crew whenever time allowed. She was recharged by the giggle of the children and teens that ran to show off their made clothes. If sewing them dresses was a blossom of happiness, the orphanage was the garden– her home, where she found happiness.