She in Every Thread

By Kawya Chandra

Stuffs naphthalene balls under the cupboard, to forget the kitchen smell.
Cleans the wooden shelves carefully-the only remnant of her home.
She folds each saree with aching care, her only asset, carried through the years.
Slides cardboard calendar pieces between the folds, like the men in her life - her father, her husband - always standing firm, holding her up.
A silk saree with heavy gold zari guards the cupboard, like she guarded his legacy.
The hand-blocked red and black one - bold, fierce, just like her.
Mulmul cotton in soft blues and yellows,
kind as her voice, charismatic, giving.
Buttery chiffon, pearl-dotted, whispers of her two girls - the wait, the joy, the softness.
Peacock blue tussar with tasseled ends - her earth-bound touch,
grounded, yet graceful.
Brownish-orange Kota net, just like the rice she strains - filtering out every obstacle in our lives.
Pink organza, sheer, scattered with flowers - delicate, yet hiding storms.
Green crepe - vibrant and alive, draped in seconds over hardship, as if it weighed nothing at all.
But the sad part is—
↓
I rarelv saw her in anv of these.
She lived mostly
in turmeric-stained nighties, torn at the seams.
Not because she didn't want to dress up, but because her hours were swallowed by vessels, vessels, vessels.
She didn't worry about how she looked - only about how her girls would appear in this watching world.
As a child, I draped her saree and said, "I have to grow fast." But now,
I wish time would slow down, so she can wear sarees again and remember that they suit her best.
One day,
I want to see her, without a broom