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…