The Price of a Saree

Mr. Rahman was a man of few words, a self-made and successful businessman who had built his empire from the ground up. Wealth had not changed him; he remained grounded, observant, and quietly wise. But recently, something—or rather, someone—had been puzzling him deeply.His wife, Shampa Rahman, had changed.Shampa was known among their social circle as a woman of refined taste. Shopping was not just a hobby for her—it was her identity. From designer sarees to luxury cosmetics, she had an eye for the extravagant. Beauty salons, brunches with friends, weekend getaways—this was her world. Her time with the children was limited, often handed off to tutors or nannies. Mr. Rahman, ever the silent observer, never complained. The children didn’t either; they had grown used to it.But over the past few months, there had been a shift in Shampa’s routine. At first, Mr. Rahman thought it was just a phase—perhaps boredom or a fleeting interest in something new. But as days turned into weeks and weeks into months, it became clear: this change was deliberate.She was going out less, barely shopping, and had stopped her frequent salon visits. Instead, she had started taking an unusual interest in the household—especially in the affairs of one boy: Russel.Russel was an orphaned teenager who worked in their house as a helper. Polite and hardworking, he had always gone unnoticed in the background—until now. Suddenly, Shampa had begun tutoring him, helping him read and write, even taking weekly tests. She had reduced his chores and brought in another maid to share the workload so he could focus on his studies.Mr. Rahman was stunned. This was the same woman who once couldn't sleep unless her saree outshone the one worn by the neighbor’s wife. The same woman whose digestion seemed to depend on daily meetups with her friends. And now here she was, teaching an orphan, testing him, encouraging him—spending her days with chalk and books instead of silk and handbags.For a while, Mr. Rahman felt proud. He believed that perhaps something had awakened in his wife—a sense of purpose, or a new kind of maturity. Maybe she was finally looking beyond material things. Maybe she had discovered the quiet satisfaction of giving.

Time passed. Shampa continued to teach. Russel continued to learn. From alphabets to numbers, basic arithmetic to spelling—he was thriving. His posture had changed. He smiled more. His eyes sparkled with hope. Shampa seemed equally enthusiastic, preparing lessons, correcting mistakes, and praising progress.One afternoon, several months into this new chapter, Mr. Rahman returned home earlier than usual. A client meeting had been canceled, and he decided to surprise his wife. He walked in quietly, not wanting to disturb anything, and was about to call out when he heard voices coming from the living room.It was Shampa, chatting animatedly with their next-door neighbor, Mrs. Alam.“My helper boy, Russel, can now count from 1 to 100 without missing a single number!” Shampa said with a proud smile.“Really?” gasped Mrs. Alam, not to be outdone. “That’s lovely. But my boy—he can spell all the numbers from one to a hundred, and that too without a single mistake!”

Shampa’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, Russel can do that too! I make sure he practices every evening. He’s improving so fast. Just the other day, he wrote all the number names without me even helping!”Mr. Rahman paused, frozen in place, the smile fading from his face. The rest of the conversation blurred. The words no longer mattered. The tone, the comparisons, the gloating—it said everything he needed to know.So that was it.Russel wasn’t a symbol of redemption. He wasn’t a vessel for her kindness. He was a trophy. A point to prove. Another saree, another designer bag—except this time, it was an orphan boy whose education could be flaunted in a game of social one-upmanship.The realization stung. His pride turned to disillusionment. For months, he had admired her quiet dedication, her patience, her transformation. He had thought she had evolved. But now, it felt like all of it had been part of a silent competition she was running—with the neighbor, with her friends, perhaps even with herself.

He turned and walked silently to his study, not wanting to interrupt. There was nothing he could say. What would he even say? That she shouldn’t help Russel? That her intentions mattered more than the outcome? That good deeds done for pride were somehow lesser?He sat down, the weight of the moment settling in his chest like stone. He wasn’t angry. Just disappointed.And then, unexpectedly, a softer thought emerged. Even if her motives weren’t entirely pure—did that make the impact any less real?Russel was still learning. His life was still changing. He still smiled with genuine joy when he grasped a new word, or spelled a tricky number correctly. Perhaps intentions mattered less than actions. Or maybe, just maybe, in the process of trying to win, Shampa might stumble into something real. Perhaps she might begin to care for Russel not as a project, but as a person.He leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply.Some changes are real. Others are just costumes.And some—well, some start as costumes and become something more.Only time would tell which one this was.