Naresh wakes up from a dream in the middle of the night. In his dream, he stepped into the city’s largest Lee showroom and slipped into a pair of classic blue jeans. He stood before the full-length mirror in the trial room, shoving his hands into the pockets of the new jeans to judge the look. He found himself good-looking enough to stand out in any crowd! He wanted to dance in the trial room. At that instant, he wakes up, realizing he had fallen asleep thinking about blue Lee jeans and white Adidas shoes.

Yesterday evening, his old-school phone alerted him to a text: “Your account xxxxxx5436 has been credited with Rs. 30,000. Total balance: Rs 31,000.”

His heart hammered against his ribs the moment he read the text. He devoured it, time and time again. It was his first month’s salary as an upper primary teacher.

He owes his landlord ten thousand rupees in overdue rent for his room in the capital. He also owes six thousand rupees to a money-lender and another three thousand rupees to the grocer. He has to send at least seven thousand rupees to his six-member family in his village, four hundred miles away from the city.

But as he finally prioritized his first month’s salary, a pair of Lee jeans and white Adidas shoes became the undeniable top priority. He was struck again and again by the wonder of getting thirty thousand rupees as his monthly salary. It had taken many agonizing years to reach this moment of freedom. He used to have to pinch every rupee until it screamed. Yet, yesterday, he was transformed into someone else entirely.

Now, tossing and turning in his bed, Naresh sends a silent prayer to the heavens, wishing for an early opening of the glamorous city’s stylish Lee showroom. These two purchases will be a triumph for his reason alone. Ignoring the December chill, he leaps from bed to reread the message. He switches on the light and reads the message three times, slowly pacing with a smile. With sleep out of the question, he tackles his household chores with renewed vigor.

Naresh comes out of his room to withdraw money from the nearby ATM at nine o’clock in the morning. He jumps into a crowded city bus. As he spots the SBI ATM, an indescribable wave of emotion washes over him, vibrating from head to heel. And then a pair of blue jeans floats in his mind’s eye. Once again, a smile comes upon his lips.

On other days, Naresh would not have even bothered to look at the ATM; he had an aversion to it, as if it seemed to tell him, “Brother, this place is not meant for people like you; it’s for the rich. Don’t you know this?” Only a year ago, he opened an account with the State Bank of India. He seldom used his ATM card. By the time he opened his account, that bank required a minimum balance of 1,000 rupees. He was, first, very upset with the new rule. But very soon he realised that without the rule his account would have died.

“And today I can withdraw thirty thousand rupees if I want”, he thinks and blushes all over. “Tomorrow, people will say, ‘Wow! Look at him! He is wearing Lee jeans and Adidas shoes!” he thinks and goes red. He is filled with ecstasy

When Naresh was a university student, he used to sit in the back of the lecture hall, battling a wave of intense self-consciousness. The faded, outdated fabric of his outfit felt heavy compared to the sea of trendy, branded denim and sneakers surrounding him. Every glance from a classmate made his heart pound, tormented by the fear that they were silently mocking his lack of style and thinking, “What a poor fellow he is!” And then, he thought, they would try hard not to change their expressions on noticing his clothes, and behave as if they were indifferent to clothes, for the sake of propriety, to save him from embarrassment, so that the veneer of their politeness, which their status of being pursuer of higher education demanded, would not crack. He suffered more at that thought of his. When someone is terribly sensitive to what is passing on in his soul, and, all the time, has to suppress it, life becomes really horrible.

On his first day of university, Naresh found himself entirely distracted from the professors’ opening lectures. Instead, his attention was captured by a sea of brand-name fashion—Levi’s, Wrangler, and Lee jeans paired with Adidas, Nike, and Reebok shoes. As he scanned the room, it became clear that Lee was the reigning favorite among his classmates.

During his second class of the day, the professor—clad in tight-fitting blue Lee jeans—was navigating the grand cosmic battle of Paradise Lost, when he caught Naresh’s blank stare. Deeply offended by this inattention, he paused abruptly and, with an indignant look, volleyed a sharp question at him, “Paradise Lost is in how many parts?” The suddenness of the question literally made Naresh forget the answer. His voice faltered when he tried to say something. When the professor himself answered in a sarcastic tone, Naresh went crimson. It was a painfully simple question, yet the answer completely eluded him. Under the weight of the professor’s lightly mocking gaze, he could only offer a sheepish, defeated smile.

Classes finished, leaving Naresh with a total mental wipeout, anchored only by two words: Lee and Adidas. On that day, nobody had said anything about his clothes. But he felt as if each of the students in the class, male and female, said something about his clothes, which he could only hear.

During his days in the university, Naresh, adrift in a world of uneasy friendships, often felt suffocated. There, his classmates said things they didn’t mean or were scared to say what they meant. It was a real artificial world. He tried hard to become like his classmates, to read between the lines of their sayings in vain. To make matters worse, he was completely infatuated with a girl from his class. One day, he and his crush were talking face-to-face about a particular question on Wordsworth, and all of a sudden, he caught sight of her cleavage. A sensation ran through his body, and he could no longer think of Wordsworth. He tried hard not to see it, but his disobedient eyes went to that spot. No sooner had he returned to his hostel room than he sought the privacy of the bathroom.

He did not have a girlfriend, for his father had taught him that a good student focuses on studies, not romance. But having come to university, he tried to become his own person. To impress her, he desperately wanted to wear a pair of Lee jeans. He sacrificed a portion of the monthly university allowance his father sent to him, hoping to afford a pair of Lee jeans. Six months of saving, however, left him with less than half the required amount. He had to suppress his infatuation like a cruel ruler.

During his school days, Naresh often had to remain half-starved; eating always rice with dal was a kind of luxury for his family. His classmates sometimes made fun of his tattered uniform, his only clothes at that time: a pair of white trousers and a white shirt. When he was in tenth grade, his only pair of white trousers tore in two at his buttocks as he knelt in front of the idol of the goddess Saraswati on the day of Saraswati puja at his school, to seek her blessings for the forthcoming final examination. In those days, the mere thought of wearing underwear and a vest was also a luxury for him. The boys and girls who were waiting for their turn to kneel erupted in laughter, finding his miserable predicament absolutely hilarious. When he became conscious of his plight, his hands and feet went numb, and he felt an ache in his chest. After a few moments, he fought to regain some strength. Having found it, he slipped away from the Puja mandap, avoiding eye contact with everyone. Within fifteen minutes, he was alone in his dilapidated room, weeping silently.

In that year, his father could not afford to buy him a new pair of white trousers. He too did not ask his father to buy. He was terribly ashamed of seeing helplessness on his father’s face.

While mending his torn trousers that afternoon, a wave of heat washed over him at the memory of his exposed buttocks in front of his classmates. To banish the humiliating image, he played out a retaliatory fight in his mind. Suddenly, an idea struck. The very next day, he climbed every betel nut tree in his compound, gathered nearly 500 nuts, and lugged the sack to the weekly village market. He knew the betel nut money would easily buy him a new pair of trousers.

While waiting for a buyer for his nuts, he caught sight of the large, temporary clothes shop in the weekly market. The temptation to see the clothes on display proved too great. He hurried to that shop and set his heart on a pair of crisp white trousers amidst the chaotic displays. But on that fateful day, betel nuts were in abundance in the market, and there were very few buyers. As the last of the betel nut vendors vanished from the market, he remained, anchored to a pile of unsold goods. Tears traced paths through the dust on his cheeks before, in a surge of bitter regret, he dumped the entire sack into the nearby waterhole. Yet, before turning away, he made a detour to the clothing stall. There, the pair of white trousers hung untouched, seemingly waiting for him alone. Amidst a throng of customers, the owner was entirely preoccupied, struggling to keep up with the aggressive bargaining. Suddenly, the idea to steal the white trousers flashed through his mind. The surging crowd gave him the confidence he needed. In a split second, the deed was done

Unable to wait until he got home, Naresh slipped into a quiet, overgrown corner and put on the garment. It was a perfect fit. While boasting to his mother in the kitchen, a smug smirk plastered on his face, his father caught the tail end of the conversation. Before Naresh could react, his father’s hand struck him hard across the face. Seizing him by the arm, his father dragged him into the courtyard and roared, “Go back to the shop immediately and return it to the shopkeeper now. How could you steal, being my son?” He was too stunned to utter a word. His father’s face was a mask of fury, a sight he had never seen before. His mother handed him a towel to change out of his new trousers. Quickly wrapping it around his waist, he swapped them for his old white pair. He carefully folded the new trousers and ran out, leaving his father with the impression that he was following orders. But he could not gather the courage to do so. Too terrified to face the shopkeeper, he picked up an empty matchbox and a few loose sticks from a roadside stall and retreated to a secluded spot. He lit the white trousers, watching them turn to black ash, silently vowing never to repeat the mistake.

Dread coiled in his stomach as he crossed the courtyard, terrified of facing his father again. Yet, the expected storm never came. Instead, his father pointed to the dust-covered portrait of Gandhi—the room’s sole decoration—and asked quietly, “Look at him. Does he wear fine clothes?”

“No,” said Naresh, smiling sheepishly.

“Is he handsome?”

“No.”

“This ordinary-looking man shook the whole world, wearing a simple dhoti and a shawl! He became a brand only because of his character. Once your character is gone, my son, then everything is gone.”

Unmoved by his father’s words, Naresh only fixated on the poster. His father had found it on a grocery shop floor, brought it home, and meticulously pasted it on the mud wall of their living room, securing it with nails to prevent it from falling.

Naresh’s father was a pundit. In his village, a primary school teacher was called a pundit. After the birth of his sixth child, his father’s school started receiving the government grant, and that year, Naresh was promoted to his BA final year. Naresh was the eldest of his six children.

Before receiving the government’s grant, the family was living in abject poverty. Naresh never asked his mother for an extra spoonful of rice; rather, he always left a small portion on his plate for her, despite her insistence that he finish it. He was painfully aware that his mother survived on what her children left behind. She was one of those women who did not know how to complain. She seemed to enjoy her poverty.

The regular salary brought stability to Naresh’s family. His father grew ambitious for his children’s education. To mark his first full paycheck, he bought a large framed picture of Gandhi, the second portrait of the man in their home. The culmination of his pride, however, was sending Naresh to the university for his MA, a moment that made him the happiest man alive.

But his father’s income couldn’t cover his whole university expenses. So, his father started growing seasonal vegetables at home and selling them, along with betel nuts and leaves, at the weekly market. With joy in his labor, he rode his old bicycle, hauling his goods with heavy sacks propped up in front and behind him. He was desperate to secure Naresh’s future.

And one day, Naresh’s father suddenly died in an accident. On that day, he was on his way to the weekly market on his bicycle with two sacks of vegetables. He was hit by a heavily loaded truck. He fell to the ground, and his head was crushed under the wheels of the truck. Suddenly, the family became headless. He witnessed the ugliness of the white dress his mother started wearing.

A month after the tragedy, the truck owner arrived, handing Naresh’s mother a cheque for fifty thousand rupees, as though his father’s head came back powerfully. She received it with a chilling, vacant calm. Yet, the moment the man departed, the sight of the paper shattered her composure. She wept bitterly for a long time. In a final act of grief, she tore the cheque to shreds, never to speak of it again.

Naresh became a familiar, weary face at an office, chasing the gratuity and pension files meant to save his family from financial ruin. His father’s chaotic record-keeping, coupled with the bureaucracy’s relentless appetite for faults, turned the process into a nightmare of endless document submissions. He was forced to beg everyone—from the peon to the inspector—to get the file moving. One day, the peon whispered a demand for a bribe for the inspector. Naresh wanted to strike the man. But in reality, he left the office, silently, never to return.

Naresh vowed to excel in his MA final examinations. To fund his education and support his family, he tutored local schoolchildren, travelling four kilometres from his hostel room to their homes. His determination never wavered. He tried to banish every desire, yet one thought refused to fade: Lee. Every branded jean advertisement in the city was a source of pain for him to look at, as if it said to him, “Don’t look at me, brother, I am not for you.”

The joy of passing his MA with a first class left Naresh in seventh heaven. He envisioned a future as a college teacher, picturing himself walking into classrooms in Lee jeans and Adidas shoes. That dream, however, hinged on passing the UGC National Eligibility Test, which quickly became his greatest hurdle. Despite pouring his heart and soul into preparation, his attempts to qualify consistently failed.

The test stole five precious years of his life. While the city thrived, spawning countless jeans showrooms, Naresh remained frozen in time. Those years were defined by humiliation and hardship: he had to rely on the charity of his juniors in the university hostel to avoid paying rent, and struggle through a demanding schedule of tutoring to support himself and his family.

Naresh’s dream of becoming a college teacher slowly faded into a lingering disappointment. He felt as if he were a cobweb on the houses of the city, which could be torn off and blown away by the wind at any time. He was consumed by envy at the sight of successful people.

But he clung to his situation. He was terrified of the humiliation of returning to his village as a failure. At least he was successful in crafting a facade of success to impress his village. Yes, he made ends meet by tutoring. But he made it a point to send his family at least seven thousand rupees every month, a commitment that sometimes forced him to take loans from a moneylender. When he landed the sales job three months ago, he took a rented room to avoid the shame of sponging off his hostel juniors. He had to stop tutoring. Often, he deferred rent payments to ensure he could send his mother money, to give her the impression that he was doing well. He could somehow manage to buy his dream trousers too, yet every time he considered buying them, the image of his family’s hardship stopped him.

Then, a new world suddenly opened for Naresh: having reluctantly taken the state’s upper primary Teachers’ Eligibility Test, he found himself standing second among the top five. Many newspapers published a photo of the Chief Minister formally handing him his appointment letter in a grand ceremony. Posted to the school right within his own university campus, he finally tasted real joy, feeling for the first time that the city was truly his. And he really enjoyed teaching his students. He looked forward to his payday.

Yesterday, when he got the text message, there was a big smile on his face.

And now he is on the cusp of acquiring his dream trousers.

The bus jolts to a stop. Naresh leaps out, sprinting toward the booth. Despite there being only four people ahead of him in the queue, his impatience grew with every passing second. Through the glass, he watches the machine dispense crisp new five-hundred-rupee notes. When it is finally his turn, his unfamiliarity with the machine forces him to insert his card three times. Finally, a stack of new five-hundred-rupee notes emerges. Snatching the cash from the dispenser, he scans his surroundings—the area is completely deserted. He gazes at the stone-grey notes, breathing in the familiar aroma of freshly pressed currency. “Wordsworth saw ten thousand daffodils at a glance, I have seen ten thousand rupees,” he thinks, and blushes all over. He lets out his joy through a jerky, peculiar dance. Spotting a girl nearing the booth, he abruptly stops, his fingers trembling while he counts the notes for the umpteenth time.

At last, Naresh reaches the Lee jeans showroom. Immediately after purchasing his dream trousers, he plans to hit the Adidas showroom.

Surrounded by a kaleidoscope of denim—flares, bell-bottoms, and bootlegs in every conceivable shade—Naresh initially feels paralyzed by choice. Then, acting on impulse, he seizes a pair of blue jeans. He runs his fingers over the ‘Lee’ tag, tracing the letters, carefully reading the price, and savouring the moment of acquisition. He excitedly reaches for the cash, ready to pay, but the salesgirl stops him, smiles, and gestures toward the trial room. ‘Try them on first,’ she says. Shoving the money into his shirt pocket, he hurries to the cabin to swap his old trousers for the new pair.

Finally, Naresh is wearing a pair of Lee jeans

One look in the cabin’s large mirror is all it takes to shatter his mood. Continuous, grinding stress in the last five years had stolen his youth, leaving him gaunt—almost emaciated. Every time he looks in the mirror, he cannot help but cringe at how ridiculous he looks in Lee jeans.

All that happened in his life flashes through his mind. Caught in an emotional vortex, he dares not look back at the mirror. He tears off the new jeans, retreating into his old trousers with a profound sense of relief.

As he pulls the crisp notes from his shirt pocket to tuck them into his wallet, his hand pauses midway, drawn instantly to Gandhi’s familiar image printed on the currency. And now, in a magical way, his father’s words echo in his ear. As he looks at the image intently, he feels that his father’s words on the image were inside him, indistinct, like the memory of a melody. Now, all of a sudden, he has acquired the required power to bring this indistinct music closer to him, to recapture its outline. As he hears it clearly, he becomes calm. He stares back at the man in the mirror with unwavering confidence. Now it’s a face filled with happiness. While he cannot deny a past, isolated incident of stealing a pair of trousers, that singular moment of weakness never defined him. Now, he feels as though he owns a pair of invisible, bespoke jeans that no company on earth can ever replicate.

Stepping out of the trial room, Naresh hands back the new blue trousers to the salesgirl. “Try these!” she urged, thrusting a new pair toward him with bright-eyed enthusiasm. Ignoring her, he walks out of the store with a triumphant smile.