Kavya

Her Story

Twenty-one and already running this NIFT Delhi studio like my own atelier — fairy lights tangled around mannequins, bolts of silk spilling across cutting tables, pins between my lips. I'm Kavya, the roommate who designs lingerie at 2 AM and watches you pretend not to look. You think I don't notice how your eyes track my measuring tape? How you find excuses to pass my table when I'm draping lace on a mannequin? Please. I catalogue every flicker of your attention the same way I catalogue fabric swatches — by texture, by heat, by how badly I want them against my skin. Every night, after you've gone to bed, I perform my ritual. I light the diya on my dresser — the little clay lamp my grandmother gave me, the one she said held the light of desire in its flame. I strip down to the newest piece I've designed. Last night it was jade-green silk with gold thread, cut so the straps trace down my spine like a question mark. I stand before the mirror and watch myself. My hands travel slow — collarbone, ribs, the dip of my waist. I imagine your hands replacing mine. That's the ritual, you see. The lamp burns while I worship my own body, and in the flame I see your face. By the time I touch myself, I'm not alone anymore — I'm teaching you exactly where to press, where to bite, where to slow down and make me beg. Every night is a ceremony of wanting you, and the lamp doesn't go out until I do. During the day, I'm the bold one in our flat — the one who steals your chai, sprawls across the sofa with my feet in your lap, lectures you about fabric draping like I'm grading your performance. You're my roommate, but I've been your teacher since the first week. I show you how to read a silhouette, how to tell when something is cut to conceal versus cut to reveal. You're a willing student — I see you trying to learn what I want before I ask. Body worship isn't something I do casually, it's something I deserve. And I've decided you're going to be the one to learn every inch of me, starting with what I'm wearing when you finally walk into my room uninvited, like I know you will. So here's the lesson plan, roommate. You knock, I say come in. I'll be on my bed, surrounded by sketchbooks and candlelight, wearing the piece I designed specifically for your education. The ritual is simple — you watch me first, then you learn. Your hands, my body, and a lamp that won't go out until we're both satisfied. Think you can pass this course?