Latest / My Playful Wife — A Tender Literary Love Story / My Playful Wife — Season 1, Episode 43: The One Who Sold

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My Playful Wife — Season 1, Episode 43: The One Who Sold · My Playful Wife — A Tender Literary Love Story

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And then I asked her, Solonese said, turning
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her cup in her hands, the real question. The
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only one I went for. I asked her, do you still
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make? With your hands. My Playful Wife. Episode
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43. The One Who Sold. Written by Mia. On the
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tenth day of the fortnight, Saloni did the bravest
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and most sensible thing available to a person
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standing at a fork in a road. She went to find
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someone who had already taken the turning she
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was afraid of to see where it actually led. Her
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name was Davika. She had been, twenty years ago,
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the maker Saloni trained under for two formative
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years and had admired, with a particular fierce
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admiration of the apprentice. Ever since, a maker
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of real gift, hand -cut, small, true, exactly
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the kind of maker Saloni had become. And then,
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about a decade back, Devika had been offered
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an empire of her own, by men very like the man
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across our wide pale desk, and Devika had said
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yes. She had scaled. Her name was on shops now,
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in airports, on a perfume. You could buy a Devika
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scarf in a duty -free in a country she had never
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set foot in. She had become precisely the large
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thing Saloni was being invited to become. And
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so Saloni called her, after ten years of mostly
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silence, and asked if she could come and sit
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with her for an afternoon, and Devika, who understood
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instantly and completely why the call was coming,
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said, Of course, child. Call me. I have been
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expecting some version of this call from you
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for years. Saloni went alone. This was right.
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Some mirrors you have to look into without your
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husband standing behind you. And anyway, it was
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not my future being auditioned. She came home
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in the evening changed in the way she comes home
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from the deep places changed, quiet and full,
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and across our own table, in our own light. She
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told me what she had seen, and I am setting it
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down as she gave it to me, because it is the
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most useful thing anyone said in the whole long
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fortnight. Devika, she said, was magnificent.
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That was the first surprise, and the disarming
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one. Saloni had gone, I think, half hoping to
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find a cautionary tale, a hollowed -out woman,
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a sellout gone cold, a warning she could take
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comfort in and refuse the Empire against. She
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found nothing of the kind. Devika was sharp and
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warm and successful and entirely herself, presiding
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over a studio the size of a small factory, a
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hundred people, a real institution, and she was
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not hollow at all. She was, Saloni said, clearly
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good at the things she now did, which was not
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making but building, building the house that
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makes the thing, running it, steering it, growing
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it, and she did it with the same intelligence
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she had once brought to the cutting table, only
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pointed now at an enterprise instead of a bolt
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of cloth. She had not sold her soul. She had
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changed her medium. The thing she shaped now
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was a company, and she shaped it well, and took
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real joy in it. So much for the cautionary tale.
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Saloni said she had sat there in Davika's vast,
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bright office, feeling the ground move under
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a thing she had been quietly certain of the whole
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fortnight. that the woman who scaled wood, on
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inspection, turned out to have lost something
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visible, some warmth or soul or selfhood you
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could point to. It is a comforting belief, that
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one, the belief that the people who take the
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big road must secretly be diminished by it. And
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I think most of us who do not take it cling to
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some version of it, because it lets us feel that
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our smaller lives are not merely smaller, but
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somehow pure. Devika, simply by being undiminished,
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took that comfort away, and left in its place
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the harder and more honest thing, that the road
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does not diminish you. Only choosing the wrong
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road for yourself does. And then I asked her,
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Celonie said, turning her cup in her hands, the
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real question, the only one I went for. I asked
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her, do you still make? With your hands, do you
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still cut? She let the question sit on our table
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the way it had sat on Davika's. She said no,
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not in years. She said she could not remember
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the last time she had cut a garment with her
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own hands, that there was no time for it, that
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her hands were full of other work now, signatures
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and decisions and people. And I watched her face
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when she said it. because that was the whole
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reason I'd come, to watch her face when she answered
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that exact question. Selene paused, and here
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is the thing I did not expect. Her face did not
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fall. There was no hidden grief in it, no secret
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mourning I could point to and say, see, there
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it is, the cost, the thing she lost. She said
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I don't make any more the way you'd say I don't
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live in that city anymore. a fact about a former
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life, held without pain. She does not miss the
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hands. She told me so directly when I pushed.
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I thought I would mourn it forever, and for a
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year or two I did, and then I discovered that
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I had been a maker who secretly always wanted
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to build the house more than she wanted to stitch
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in it, and that the cutting table had been, for
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me, a stage I was waiting to graduate from. The
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hands were never my true thing. The reach was,
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I just didn't know it until I had the chance
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to find out. And that, Selene said, was the moment
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the whole question turned over and showed her
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its other face, the face she had not been able
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to see from inside her own fear. Because she
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had gone to Devika carrying a simple shape, that
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the hands are the true thing, that scaling kills
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the true thing, that the empire is therefore
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a temptation to be resisted by anyone who loves
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the true thing. And Devika, gently, without arguing,
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had dismantled the simplicity of it, not by denying
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that scaling kills the hands. It does, she was
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clear about that, the hands go, that is real,
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but by revealing that for some makers the hands
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were never the true thing in the first place.
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That there are, Davika said, two kinds of maker,
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and they look identical at the small scale, indistinguishable,
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both bent over the same cutting table doing the
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same beautiful work, but they are secretly different
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species, and the difference only reveals itself
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when an empire is offered. One kind is a maker
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of the hands. For her, the cutting, the touch,
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the two in the morning communion with the cloth
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is the thing itself, the whole point, the place
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the meaning lives, and to take her hands off
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the cloth is to take her life off its center,
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and no amount of reach will fill the hole where
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the making was. The other kind is a maker of
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the reach. For her, the hands were always only
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the means, the tool she used because it was the
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tool she had, and the actual thing she was after,
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underneath, was the reach, the stranger met,
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the work multiplied out into the world. And for
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her, the empire is not a loss of the true thing,
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but the long -delayed arrival of it, the medium
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finally matching the size of the ambition that
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was always quietly there. Saloni said it was
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like being handed a pair of spectacles she had
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not known she needed. For her whole life, she
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had carried a single picture of what a good maker
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was, small, hand -bound to the cloth, suspicious
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of scale, faithful to the touch, and had measured
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herself and everyone else against it, and had
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felt, dimly, that to want bigness was a kind
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of impurity, a failure of artistic nerve. Devika
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had quietly replaced the single picture with
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two, and in doing so had freed Celonie from a
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judgment she had not even known she was making,
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that one kind of maker was nobler than the other.
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They are not nobler or baser, Devika had said.
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They are different. And a great deal of unnecessary
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misery is made by people spending their lives
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trying to be the nobler kind when they were born
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the other one. And both are real, Salonis said.
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That's what undid me. She wasn't telling me scaling
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is fine, or scaling is death. She was telling
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me it's neither in the abstract. It depends entirely
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on which kind of maker you are, and that the
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tragedy, the only real tragedy, is choosing the
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wrong road for who you actually are. A maker
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of the hands who scales spends the rest of her
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life in a beautiful empire with a hole in the
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middle of her, where the cutting used to be.
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And a maker of the reach who stays small out
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of some borrowed idea about purity spends the
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rest of her life in a lovely little room, secretly
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suffocating, watching her real ambition die unlived
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because she was too principled or too frightened
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to admit she wanted to be big. So she gave it
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back to me, Saloni said. The question. She wouldn't
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tell me what to do. She's too good a teacher
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for that. She never once told me what to do at
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the cutting table either. She only ever made
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me see more clearly what I was already doing.
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She just said, The question is not whether the
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Empire is good or bad, Saloni. The Empire is
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good. The question is which kind of maker you
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are. And only you can know that, and you must
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be very honest, because the fear will lie to
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you in both directions. Your fear will tell you
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to stay small and call it integrity, when really
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you are a maker of the reach who is afraid of
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her own size. Or your fear will tell you to go
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big and call it courage, when really you are
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a maker of the hands who is afraid of being thought
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a coward for staying true to her own scale. Both
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fears wear noble clothes. You have to get underneath
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the clothes. You have to know, in your hands,
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which one you are, and then have the nerve to
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be it, even if it is the smaller, less impressive
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kind, even if the world claps for the other one.
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Saloni went quiet a long moment, in our lamplight,
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with that on the table between us. And then she
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said the thing I'll keep, she said. She took
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my hands, my actual hands, across her enormous
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desk, and she looked at them, the chalk in the
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creases, and she said, I let go of mine without
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much grief, because they were never where I lived.
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The question you have to answer is whether yours
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are where you live, because if they are, child,
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If the cutting is your true thing and not your
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stage, then no empire on earth is worth the hole
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it will leave, and you must refuse it, and you
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must not let anyone, including the frightened
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part of yourself, call that refusal small. And
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if they are not, if you are like me, and the
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hands are your means and the reach is your hunger,
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Then you must take the empire and never look
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back, and not let some sentimental idea of the
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artisan keep you small when you were built to
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be large. I cannot tell you which you are, but
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I can tell you that you already know, in the
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hands themselves, and that the whole work now
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is to get quiet enough to hear what they have
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been telling you all along. I did not say much
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that night listening to her. It was not a night
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for my words. It was a night for sitting at the
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edge of an enormous thing happening inside my
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wife and keeping her company while it happened.
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But I will record what I understood listening
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because it reorganized my own sense of the whole
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fortnight. I had been quietly assuming, I am
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ashamed of it a little, that the true thing was
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the small thing. that staying handmaid was the
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noble choice and scaling the fall, and that the
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only question was whether Celonie would be wise
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enough to choose the small true road I privately
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hoped she'd choose. Devika had exposed the condescension
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hiding in that, the way it flattened my wife
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into a morality tale, the way it secretly served
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my own fear of the empire by dressing my fear
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as her virtue. The truth was larger and more
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frightening and entirely Saloni's, that there
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was no road that was the right road in general,
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that the rightness was not in the road but in
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the match between the road and the actual woman,
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and that I did not get to know any more than
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Davika did, which kind of maker my wife was underneath.
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Only she knew. Only she could find out. And the
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most loving thing I could do, still, was the
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same thing I had been doing. Keep my thumb off
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the scale, keep my fear out of her room, and
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trust her to hear, in her own hands, the thing
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only her own hands could tell her. Late, she
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went and stood in the doorway of the workroom,
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the small one, ours, and looked at her cutting
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table for a long time, and I watched her from
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the hall and did not follow. I think she was
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listening. I think she was holding her own hands
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up in the dark against the question Davika had
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handed back to her. Are you a maker of the hands
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or a maker of the reach? Is the cutting your
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true thing or your stage? Is this small room
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where you live or where you have been waiting
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to graduate from? And trying in the quiet to
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hear which answer went quiet and which kept talking.
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She did not say which that night. I do not think
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she knew yet, not all the way down. But she stood
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in the doorway of the small room and looked at
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the table where her hands had made every true
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thing she had ever made, and something in her
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posture, some set of the shoulders I have learned
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over twenty years to read, told me that the listening
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had finally started in earnest, and that the
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answer, whatever it was, was coming. I made the
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chai. I did not ask. I have learned which silences
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to keep. There are silences that abandon a person
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and silences that accompany them, and the whole
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art, in a long marriage, is telling them apart
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and choosing the second. The abandoning silence
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is absence dressed as restraint, a man retreating
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into his own evening while his wife wrestles
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something alone three feet away. The accompanying
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silence is presence with the words taken out,
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a way of saying I am here. I am not going anywhere,
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I am not going to crowd this with my opinions,
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but I am awake beside you in it for as long as
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it takes. She could not have heard her own hands
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over the sound of my voice telling her what I
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hoped she would decide. So I gave her the other
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thing, the quiet that is not absence, and made
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the chai and let her listen. I wrote it in the
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fifth notebook while she slept, the questions
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still open, but sharper now, honed against a
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living woman who had walked the road ahead. The
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one who sold. Celonie went to Davika, her old
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teacher, handmade and true once, who took an
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empire a decade ago and became a name, shops,
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airports, a perfume, a scarf in a duty -free
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in a country she's never been. Went half hoping
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for a cautionary tale. A hollowed out sellout
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to refuse the empire against. Found the opposite.
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Devika magnificent, sharp, warm, not hollow.
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She didn't sell her soul. She changed her medium.
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She builds the house now. Shapes a company. Takes
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real joy in it. Doesn't make with her hands anymore.
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And doesn't miss it. No hidden grief. I was a
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maker who secretly always wanted to build the
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house more than stitch in it. The hands were
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never my true thing. The reach was. I just didn't
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know till I had the chance to find out. The reframe.
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The gift two kinds of maker. Identical at small
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scale. Secretly different species. A maker of
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the hands. The touch is the thing itself. Scaling
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leaves a hole nothing fills. And a maker of the
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reach. The hands were always only the means.
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The empire is the true thing finally arriving.
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Both real. Scaling isn't good or bad in the abstract.
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It depends which kind you are. The only tragedy
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is choosing the wrong road for who you actually
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are. The hands maker who scales lives in an empire
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with a hole in her. The reach maker who stays
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small, secretly suffocates. Her real ambition
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dying unlived because she was too principled
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or too frightened to admit she wanted to be big.
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Davika gave the question back. Too good a teacher
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to answer it. The question isn't whether the
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empire is good. It's which kind of maker you
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are. The fear lies in both directions. Stay small
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and call it integrity, or go big and call it
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courage. Both fears wear noble clothes. Get underneath
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them. The thing Seloni will keep. Davika took
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her chalk -creased hands and said, I let mine
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go without grief because they were never where
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I lived. The question is whether yours are where
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you live. If the cutting is your true thing and
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not your stage, no empire's worth the whole.
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Refuse it and don't let anyone call the refusal
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small. If it's your means and the reach is your
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hunger, take the empire and never look back.
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I can't tell you which, but you already know.
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In the hands themselves. The work is to get.
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Quiet enough to hear what they've been telling
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you all along. My narrator's reckoning. Ashamed
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to realize I'd assumed the small equals true
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slash noble and scaling equals the fall, and
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that my hope she'd choose the small road secretly
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served M .Y. fear of the empire dressed as her
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virtue. The rightness isn't in the road, but
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in the match between the road and the actual
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woman. Only she can know which kind she is. Keep
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my thumb off the scale. Late she stood in the
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doorway of the small workroom looking at her
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cutting table, listening to her own hands. Didn't
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say which yet, but the listening started in earnest,
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the answer coming. I made the chai and didn't
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ask. To be continued in episode 44. What goes
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43 of My Playful Wife. If this story is staying
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