Black rarely asks for attention, so I let my silver do the work instead. Kadhua buti gather thick near my collar and chest, each one raised and distinct, the mark of a weaver who refused to let the thread lie flat. Further down I quieten myself, black holding its ground until my hem breaks into a border heavy with silver. My canvas was built for a long silhouette, something structured and architectural rather than soft. I carry Banaras the way a well-tailored coat carries a room, without needing to say so. Wear me where restraint is the loudest thing in it.