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“Good,” Anjan said. “Let them die.”

Shruti, holding a reflector, saw it happen. The chaos Anjan wanted. The saree was no longer a costume. It was a second skin—wet, heavy, clinging, but refusing to tear. Nandini’s face was a mix of exhaustion and defiance. bong saree shoot

The saree had done its job. It had told a story. And it would never, ever be just a garment again. “Good,” Anjan said