My mother had many sarees—
different colours, different types:
red, maroon, green, purple, her favorite ivory,
Banarasi silk, Chikankari, dhola silk, organza,
and her cherished Kanjivaram.
She kept them organized by colour and type
in an almirah my dad bought just for her.
Mothballs warded off moths, silverfish, mildew.
I loved their sharp, secret smell.
She draped each sari elegantly, with matching blouse
and accessories: earrings, necklace, bangles, rings.
Even her footwear echoed the hue,
as did her handkerchief.
Like a goddess rising from fire,
she exuded grace and simplicity.
People stood transfixed as she passed,
but she noticed only my father.
