plastic bags digging in-
to her palms, leaving
red welts
where they had hung
all the way
from town to home,
her hair a bit sticky,
strands rebelling
against her chignon,
conniving with sweat
tracing an easy line
down the curve
of her cheek-bone,
her thoughts already on supper
and a much-needed
soapy scrub, utilitarian
to the core of her cotton
saree, pinned, austere,
starch only adding
to the strictness of her demeanor,
not a hint of a rose
neither in her chignon
nor on her person,
with just grit and grime
for perfumed whiffs,
why does she still
make me puff up
with pride?
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