Women of the Closets

That woman holds a story in the crease,

Of her silk Sari, her silent face doesn’t say,

It but her presence does, when she would,

Again neatly fold and hang it like another,

Of some untold dreams, closing again the doors,

Of her closet where it will keep breathing,

Holding within its soul the story of those,

Women who were all the bearer of a lineage,

Passed on, to many ahead of their times,

From their days of youth till turning aged,

To another bearer. Women are the sole carrier,

Of a huge lineage, yet their stories are unsung,

And this new woman who is holding onto,

Those stories of myriad lovers and men who had,

Offered their women another Silk cloth, never knew,

How it will hold within its threads a complete,

Story of one woman who stood evermore on the,

Verge of passing it on to another bearer, the legacy,

Of womanhood, tales of her love nest, and those moments,

Where she was adorned with one of those silk Saris.

And this new woman shall wait for the dusk again,

Till that Sari is brought out, to be worn by her,

On another occasion of commemorative twilight,

There is not one, but a huge gathering of mottled,

Saris, each holding a tale of the roots she,

Has safeguarded of bygone days, she knew,

She was carrying innumerable dreams of those,

Women who had come before her, she can still,

See them with her opened eyes, whenever her,

Hand moves through the body of that heavily,

Embroidered silk that was passed on to her,

By a pair of wrinkled hands, a gray haired woman,

Who was once a mother to a son, but she was,

The daughter from another household,

And she still remembers, those sanguine days,

When she would wait eagerly for,

Those mahogany closet doors to open, she would see the,

Rows of hanging silks with dreamy eyes and,

Her senses would be filled with the elixirs of her,

Mother, her aunts, the young sisters and how she,

Counted the days, to possess those pieces of silk,

As her own, and how time really fulfilled those,

Silent desires turning her into a woman, she came to,

A new house with a new closet, the guffaws and hushed

Tattles of many mothers and aunts remained behind,

This new world was her own making, a legacy to be taken,

Of new household, but they were there, the stories,

That known smell of the women of the house she had,

Grown up seeing, her closet was now full of them,

Where she when visits, finds that same solace and tales,

Yet resting within each fold, the house could be different,

But she was same, and how in each she found the truth,

That in the end it was home where all have to come,

Where time will be stagnant, and the feeling of becoming,

Same like the women of the closets left in the past alleys,

It wasn’t that difficult the process of taking upon her,

Shoulders; the stories of those mothers, her body was made of their dust…

~Monalisa Joshi~
Image Source: Pinterest/ Mugdha Weaves