Answer:

There, in the wooden box

my MOTHER’s sari, enveloped in white muslin,

with mothballs.

Her sense of ORDER is in each one

of 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 eagerness

coupled with the jingling of bangles

is the zest to get down to work.

Lines RUNNING across the broad pallu,

the unbroken bridges of an upright life,

keeping all evil at bay –

a cane to reprove naughty children.

Folds tucked into a knot,

a mysterious treasure-house of meanings,

the pretty yellow Madhura sari

with its green border of blooms . . .

. . . that queen was perhaps like my mother.

Endless is my mother’s sari –

the more I wrap it around me, the more

it grows.

I REMEMBER becoming a midget once

trying to measure it,

trying to drape it.

My mother’s sari –

the latex of mango and cashew,

a heaven of Ranja, Kepala and Suragi

golden wheat beads auguring

the New Year Kani,

the old rolling over each year

to yield a new import.

My mother’s sari,

with stars all over its body,

shields those in distress

from rain or shine,

it glows uniquely in the darkness.

My mother’s sari

of voile or handloom,

with a small dream of silk

When the dream came true,

Father was no more.

She wears it now

but the dream is gone.

There! My mother’s old, Udupi weaver’s sari

looks at me from where it hangs.

I unfold it and envelope myself in it

uttering with a long SIGH

the word ‘Amma’ –

a word that remains forever fresh,

however worn with use.

[Note: Original from Parijatha;

Publisher: Christ College Kannada Sangha,

Bengaluru, 1999