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Meeti Shroff-Shah I watch her as I cut the crinkled chiffon along the sickle-shaped white line of the chalk. She sits silently, staring straight ahead, her arms crossed tightly in front of her. Not once has she glanced at the glossy, emaciated models in the pile of Femina and Vogue on the corner table beside her. Nor has she turned towards the back of the shop where a steady stream of women pose in front of the mirror, stomachs sucked in, admiring their newly tailored smock dresses, pin-tucked midis, and puff-sleeved kurtas. Her utter lack of interest in the other