Banaras gave me my colour before it gave me my weave. Peacock feathers fold and unfold across my length in small gold clusters, patient work that took its own time on the loom. My dupatta borrows a different rhythm, thin silver-gold lines running like a river finding its path. Touch my border and you will find the same hands that shaped my booti, now working denser, richer, unwilling to leave any edge plain. I was raised for someone who wants Banaras without asking it to shout. Wear me and carry a city's oldest colour on new shoulders.