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Aisha doesn’t say anything. She just leans her head against Meera’s shoulder. The koel sings. The chai boils over. And somewhere in Melbourne, a brand campaign waits for its footage.

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“Choose one,” Meera says.

When Aisha finally looks in the mirror, she is transformed. The ripped jeans are gone. The ironic t-shirt is folded on the chair. In her reflection stands a young woman wrapped in eight meters of humility and pride. Her posture changes. Her breath slows. Aisha doesn’t say anything

Meera ties the loose end of her cotton pallu over her shoulder. “Reclaiming? We never lost it, beta . We just got tired of ironing it.” The chai boils over