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The Ajrakh stole arrived on a Tuesday morning at my sister's flat in Wembley. She opened the box on the kitchen counter and lifted the folded cloth toward the window. The first thing she said was that the indigo looked deeper than the photo. That is not the photo failing. That is what natural indigo does when it meets north-London daylight after weeks in the shade of a container hold. The dye is finished, and the light finds it. She ran her hand across the border. The block impressions were faintly raised, the way carved wood leaves a memory on cotton that the machine never leaves. She held the cloth to her cheek. Cool. Dry. Not slippery. The kind of cotton that softens the second time you wash it and stays soft for two hundred wears after that. A small folded card had ridden along inside the box. Cold water, mild detergent, shade dry, iron on the reverse. Instructions in English. The tracking number had told her when the parcel would arrive, and it arrived within the window. Duties had been quoted at checkout, no surprise slip from the customs office three weeks later. She did not buy a saree first. She bought a stole because stoles travel well, drape over kurtas, dresses, or shoulders bare, and she was not sure yet whether the rest of iTokri would earn her trust. When the next order went out three weeks later it was a Kalamkari cushion cover for the reading chair and a Chanderi saree for Diwali. Then a Bhujodi throw for the sofa. Then a Maheshwari for our mother's birthday. This is what the arrival of a real handloom looks like at an address abroad. Quiet. Considered. And then, a few weeks later, another parcel, and another, because once you feel it, you know.