Written piece
Threads in Mother's Quilt
Sami Rafiq
India
About this piece
In many Indian homes, mothers used their old sarees to make colourful quilts. I have threaded the memories of a mother into a quilt from her saree, which represents Indian culture and traditions.
The colourful quilt made from mother's saree holds grim social realities too.
Threads in Mother’s Quilt
Me,
A thread of childhood.
Curled in six metre saree,
That smelt of Mother,
Sticking pins in my hair,
Just like her French twist,
Touching her bijli drops,
To my ears.
Me,
A thread of rapture.
Drowned in tinkles,
Of coloured bangles.
Bewitched in aromatic spells,
Of saffron biryanis ,
Milads of qimami sweetness,
And the sacred Fridays
On her lips. .
Me,
A thread of celebration.
Dressed in Eid gharara,
Under kohl lined tired eyes,
Glancing like mirrors still;
Rays of scars and scratches,
Burning from fires
In deep, dark kitchens.
Me,
A thread of flowers.
Cast in jasmine and marigold.
Pink lilies, and spotted aloe vera ,
Red Poppies, yellow roses and purple zinnias,
Bitter Neem and moody harsingar;
Oil paintings in the sun,
Never put up for exhibition.
Me,
A thread of adventure.
Learnings and lingerings,
In her choppy adventures,
Galloping on wild horses,
Riding brooms, rickshaws, pumpkins,
Reading to soft twilights,
Feathers, fancies, furry beings
A never ending Alif Laila.
Me,
A thread of shyness and retreat.
Hiding in sacred inner lockers,
Sanctuaries of her many selves,
Silent pleats of cotton aanchals,
Wardrobes of lost rainbows,
Love’s long since cancell’d woe.
Me,
A thread of music.
In the showers of basant raga,
Megh malhar and the rain,
Her harmonium summoning autumn,
With the tune of bharaivi
And deep sleep with Malkosh,
Me,
A thread of sorrow.
Stood quite dead,
At her death bed,
But she was life,
Who kneaded dreams,
And breads of wisdom,
Healed fevers,
And burnt hurt silences
Of smudged, dark kohl.
Me,
A thread of fear.
I quiver, jostle and sink,
Shadows dance and flick,
With lights that lick ,
White walls;
And red chillies and a coin,
Burn away all curses,
With acrid, tearful smoke,
Mother expunges,
All evil from our bones.
Me,
A thread of Love.
Curled once more in a quilt,
Of Mother’s six metre saree,
Threads spun of moments,
Stitches of bondings and yearnings,
Colours of gardens,
Paintings and prayers,
Warmth and succour
Of her everlasting love.
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