Silk Thread, Jaipur – Part 2: The Master

Ananya came to his studio the next morning, which surprised him.

"I couldn't sleep," she said. "If you're right, our hotel paid a fortune for a fake. And so have others." She opened a folder. "Four museums in three years. All 'royal' textiles. All sold through the same dealer."

They sat on the floor among bolts of silk, matching dates. Kabir did not want to say it aloud. Ananya said it for him.

"Your mentor."

"Devraj taught me everything," Kabir said. "When my father said a boy should not spend his life at a loom, Devraj said a loom does not care who sits at it." He paused. "He's the reason I'm me."

"Then ask him," Ananya said gently.

Devraj's workshop was in a quiet lane behind the old bazaar, where the looms clacked all day like rain. The old man embraced Kabir like a son. He made tea. He asked about his designs.

Kabir could not stop looking at the loom in the corner, covered with a cloth.

When Devraj went to fetch sweets, Kabir lifted the cloth.

Red silk. Gold thread. Peacocks, half woven. And beside the loom, his own stolen notebook, open to a page of old royal patterns.

"I hoped you wouldn't see that," Devraj said from the doorway.

He did not sound angry. He sounded tired.

"Why?" Kabir whispered.

"The looms are dying," Devraj said. "Nobody pays for real work anymore. Only for old things with stories." He paused. "So I gave them stories."

"You used my patterns."

"I used ours," the old man said. And then, softly: "The dealer does not let people leave this, Kabir. Not even me."

Outside, a motorbike engine stopped in the lane.

Then a second one.

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Next: Part 3, The Border. A dye yard, a stepwell, and a confession that saves one honest life.