6:00 AM
The shrill whistle of the street cleaner pierced the stillness of dawn.
Iraaya stirred awake on her straw mat in the municipal shelter, her limbs stiff and her back sore from the hard floor.
Around her, women began to shuffle folding blankets, rinsing faces at a communal tap, whispering morning prayers.
She sat up slowly, clutching the jute bag to her chest, the shawl still cocooned around her like armour, Her body felt like a heap of rusted machinery, but her mind buzzed with something electric.
She had work today
In a city that didn't know her name
She had a place to be
A role to play
Something to earn, yesterday gave her hope.
She washed her face with freezing water, brushed her teeth with her finger and borrowed salt, and twisted her hair into a loose braid, Her reflection in a shard of mirror stuck to a post told the truth: tired eyes, chapped lips, clothes already beginning to smell like the street. But there was resolve too, carved into her cheekbones, flickering behind her gaze.
9:15 AM
She stood outside Panna Tailors, She wasn't late.
She had waited across the street for 30 minutes just to be early, The shop was modest, a narrow room with faded yellow walls, thread spools stacked like candy jars, and dresses pinned on a wire for display. Just like yesterday
Inside, Maari , was bent over a blouse, feeding it through a foot-pedal sewing machine with rhythmic determination.
The air smelled of starch, sweat, and ambition.
"Good morning, aunty," Iraaya said, entering softly. The woman glanced up, gave a single nod visibly irritated by the word "aunty" , and pointed toward the broom in the corner.
Iraaya started brooming, to her it was the beginning of something.
11:00 AM
By midmorning, Iraaya had swept the floor, arranged the fabric shelves in colour order, and delivered tea to a customer, everything just like yesterday.
Her stomach grumbled, but her hands were too busy to care.
She watched the woman sew, There was no rush in her hands, but there was no waste either, Every stitch held the precision of decades, Every cut was a decision.
Iraaya was fascinated.
"You don't want me to call you aunty, then what should I call you" she finally asked.
The old woman didn't pause her stitching, she replied.
"People call me Amma." Amma.
It fit, she had the no-nonsense warmth of someone who stitched more than clothes: maybe people, maybe lives.
"Have you... always run this shop alone?" Iraaya asked, voice cautious.
Amma didn't look up, but her jaw tightened slightly. "Used to be my husband's. He passed away. Then my son took over . He is young. Now it's me." Silence stitched itself between them.
Not awkward, just the kind that comes with grief aged into fact.
"I'll help you " Iraaya said suddenly.
Amma looked up at her then, really looked, and maybe, just maybe, there was a flicker of respect in her eyes.
1:00 PM
Lunch was two dry chappatis and a packet of namkeen shared between them.
They sat on low stools outside the shop, watching scooters whiz by.
The heat rose in waves from the concrete.
"You have family?" Amma asked.
Iraaya nodded. "In Jhirkala. But I won't be going back."
Amma didn't ask why, She simply passed her half of the namkeen and said, "Then you're in Kairos now. Earn. Learn. Stay sharp."
Earn. Learn. Stay sharp.
Like a mantra.
Like a blade.
3:30 PM
The customer walked in with gold bangles clinking and an attitude louder than her perfume.
"I want a lehenga stitched for my daughter's wedding. Something designer-type. She's getting married to a boy in Canada, so nothing outdated."
Amma greeted her calmly, pulling out a sketchbook.
But Iraaya couldn't help the flicker of fire that sparked inside.
She thought of Manaly.
Of the wedding she never had.
Of the dreams they used to draw together in the dark, gowns that dripped royalty, suits that screamed rebellion.
This world of colour and cloth had always been their secret language.
Iraaya leaned closer, watching Amma sketch a design, elegant, clean lines, flattering pleats.
"Ma'am," she said softly
"if we add a scalloped border and a high-collar blouse, it'll look modern, more Indo- Western."
The woman raised an eyebrow.
"Are you the designer here?"
Amma didn't scold her. Instead, she slid the sketchpad toward Iraaya.
"Show it."
With trembling hands, Iraaya took the pencil. She outlined the idea quickly, hesitant strokes at first, then smoother, like muscle memory taking over.
The customer peered at the drawing.
"Hmm. Not bad. Alright, let's do this one. But I want it in peacock blue."
After she left, Amma raised a quiet eyebrow.
"You know stitching?"
"Only basics. But I... used to draw designs with my sister. For fun."
Amma nodded, expression unreadable.
"Then we'll see if fun can feed you."
5:00 PM
Iraaya stayed longer than she was supposed to.
She helped trace the lehenga pattern on raw silk, watched closely as Amma showed her how to hold the chalk, mark darts, align fabric.
It was intricate work. Serious work. But it felt like something clicking into place, like the city, the pain, the hunger, had led her here.
"Don't rush," Amma said.
"Every thread has its purpose."
Every thread. Every hour. Every bruise.
7:00 PM
Back at the shelter, she found herself seated next to a girl with dyed red hair and headphones plugged into one ear.
The girl watched her unwrap a dinner of banana and bread with mild curiosity.
"First day on the streets?" the girl asked.
"Third," Iraaya replied with a smile.
"You don't look broken yet."
"I'm not."
The girl smirked. "Then you'll do fine. Name's Vicky. I dance in clubs, no judgment. Survival's a talent."
"Iraaya," she said. "I fold clothes."
Vicky laughed, bumping her shoulder. "Folding clothes? Girl, you're going places."
And for the first time since arriving in Kairos, Iraaya laughed from heart.
10:00 PM
She lay on the mat, eyes fixed on the tin ceiling, the shawl around her shoulders like a promise.
Tomorrow, she would return to Panna Tailors. She would learn to stitch, design, cut, serve tea, sweep floors.
Whatever it took.
Every thread would weave into something bigger. She whispered Manaly's name into the darkness. Not as a farewell, but as a vow.
The city hadn't defeated her. It had just begun to shape her.
Because someday, not too far from now, the lehengas she stitched would become labels.
And her name would no longer be one whispered under dusty roofs... ...but sewn into the hems of
dreams.