life thus far has been smug,
like the saree folded neatly
and placed along with scented moth balls
at the bottom of the suitcase.
those whispered exchanges with mom
sitting in front of the warm stove
when flowers on her saree
break into a blossom
as she clasps the tray
and takes graceful steps
each fold in her saree
hides a secret dream
undressing,
when she folds the saree
back into a square
she blushes, thinking
of his dreamy eyes.
the sound of a kiss
imparted hastily
to the mirror
awakens her,
her cheeks a deep crimson
like her saree.
when it begins to fade,
the saree,
lumped into a mass and thrown aside,
giggles at her.
an obscene joke.
when she patches up the holes
on her wrinkled saree
memories come floating.
cleaning the messes
made by her child
with the rag of her saree,
she hums to herself
the same old tunes
taught by mother.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem