MY MOTHER'S SARI

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 weavers' sari looks at me from where it hangs. I unfold it and envelop myself in it uttering with a long sigh the word ‘Amma' - a word that remains forever fresh, however worn with use.