At last, my daily tailor stall shuts down.
A light wind flows through my bedroom windows,
caressing my skin as I leisurely lounge.
I count my joys, lost in a dreamy mood,
like how mirrors glimmer on my kurtas,
how they reflect wearers’ beams of gratitude,
stitching chamba rumals with gorgeous flowers,
to rest on bamboo trays for little girls’ birthdays,
or enliven raiment for bridal showers,
printing chikan patterns on dove-white tanzebs,
studding them with lambent sequins,
prints like lotus, creepers, and jali webs,
pleating my saris along my mannequins,
Sipping my glass of fresh sugarcane juice,
Admiring the sun rays, skimming on the sequins,
quilting my kantha with old kurtas, rumals, and saris,
bordering my kantha quilt with bright blue beads
dreaming of each stained patches' past stories,
Maybe a vagabond vet healed a hurt hare.
Cleaning its wounds with a remnant from his kurta
Could that explain my quilt kurta’s bloodstain there?
Maybe a rani with her rumal was dabbing her tears,
when watching a doe die in her palace garden.
Could this explain my quilt rumal’s kohl stain here?
perhaps someone spilt some strong Kannouj perfume,
on her dove-white sari draped round her waist;
this quilts yellowed sari fills this room with musky fumes.
I stroke my kantha quilt’s red cotton thread.
I beam at my joyful days and dreams,
and desire to draw more designs in bed.
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