Vaidehi

My Mother’s Sari

There, in the wooden boxmy mother’s sari, enveloped in white muslin,with mothballs.Her sense of order is in each oneof its folds,and the press of her palm.A universe of ironing lies beneath the pillow.Tiny packets of camphor, incense andfragrant roots –her perfume.My mother’s sari’s tucked-in eagernesscoupled with the jingling of banglesis the zest to get down…

She said, hunger, thirst.

She wept.He smiled.The other day he said, window,not door as she’d imagined.Wall, he said.She thought it was space –was it because all is revealedwhen a wall breaks?She prepared his favourite payasamWhat he ate was rayatham.Why is everything so topsy-turvy?Was there no air between them,and so no waves either?Heads down, words in watersend out a forlorn…

She said, hunger, thirst.

She wept.He smiled.The other day he said, window,not door as she’d imagined.Wall, he said.She thought it was space –was it because all is revealedwhen a wall breaks?She prepared his favourite payasamWhat he ate was rayatham.Why is everything so topsy-turvy?Was there no air between them,and so no waves either?Heads down, words in watersend out a forlorn…

Tell me,

I know nothing of itbut I know what rasam is.Do you think it’s a mere nothing?It calls for a blendof the principles of water,aroma and essence –a tempered state reached after simmering . . .Thus . . .There it was in the corner,a container with rasam,on a seemingly dead and ash-coveredcoalfire, waiting and waiting ….

There, in the wooden box

with mothballs.Her sense of order is in each oneof its folds,and the press of her palm.A universe of ironing lies beneath the pillow.Tiny packets of camphor, incense and fragrant roots –her perfume.My mother’s sari’s tucked-in eagernesscoupled with the jingling of banglesis the zest to get down to work.Lines running across the broad pallu,the unbroken bridges…

Tell me,

I know nothing of itbut I know what rasam is.Do you think it’s a mere nothing?It calls for a blendof the principles of water,aroma and essence –a tempered state reached after simmering . . .Thus . . .There it was in the corner,a container with rasam,on a seemingly dead and ash-coveredcoalfire, waiting and waiting ….