Lying on my mother’s bed
I watch her
begin her Sunday morning ritual.
She opens her cupboard
and before her lie
shelves of neatly arranged sarees.
A splendid array of red, blue and green
calling out to be worn.
I never know how she chooses
I pick my favourite blue.
She smiles and pays no heed.
Freshly bathed,
with quaint modesty
she rushes into her bedroom.
Now with immaculate precision
she drapes her body
with yards of cloth.
Within minutes she emerges,
a beautiful butterfly.
I no longer go into my mother’s bedroom.
She no longer wears sarees.
She’s dressed in cotton kaftans.
My mother’s sarees sit quietly
on the shelves of her cupboard.
Are they still calling out to be worn?
I know the next time I see her in a saree
she will not be that tall lovely lady.
She will be lying small and shrivelled
in her final bed.
