poem #3

The world watches at the subcontinent, 

In movies on the TV, 

And they marvel at the aesthetic appeal. 

They watch the beading on saris, 

Whooshing,

Glittering whilst actresses dance. 

The saris come in pink and white, 

The colour of innocent girls, 

In dark velvets and black, 

The colour of a swirling toofan, 

In emerald greens and sapphires, 

Golds and silvers fit for a nawab, 

Oranges the colour of spring, 

Yellows the colour of a summer day, 

Blues the colour of Hawkes Bay, 

Reds the colour of fresh blood, 

Vibrant and striking, 

Just perfect for a bride. 

Some are made cheaply,

With fake jewels, 

Golds that are too yellow, 

Fabric like polyester, 

On sizes that don’t fit the wearer, 

Sizes too big or too small. 

Others are more expensive, 

Fit to the closest millimetre, 

Each thread costing tens of rupees. 

Women fly in from around the world, 

United by only the colour of their skin, 

For this precious garment, 

Some woman is weaving, 

Night and day. 

These ones are silky, 

Expensive to the touch. 

The saris can cost a thousand, 

Or a million, 

But they all capture the flavour, 

Of the places they are made in. 

Those in the west wear greys and blacks, 

Nude tones and beige, 

Plain, 

Unemotional. 

In our countries, 

They are vivid with colour, 

Each one stands out, 

Surrounded by others of similar brightness. 

But the saris are not enough, 

Rich or poor, 

Large or small, 

Everyone wears little adornments, 

Churiyan, 

Jhumkas, 

Payalon. 

Some wear simple ones, 

Plain silvers, 

A modest gold. 

Small jhumkas dancing in the wind, 

Two bangles clinking with every step. 

Tiny and intricate, 

They shine in the sun, 

And glow in the night. 

Others wear pinks that resemble flamingos, 

Greens the colour of pine trees, 

Blues the colour of the Mediterranean sea. 

Brides wear heavy ones, 

Teekas heavier than a fresh Anwar Rattol, 

Big churiyan the colour of Champa, 

Jhumkas the size of small melons. 

 The world gazes at the subcontinent, 

Transfixed by the glamour, 

The saris and earrings, 

The bangles and anklets, 

And they are right to think so. 

In countries that are failing, 

Where hope is ailing, 

Our jhumkas shine on, 

With the promise of a new dawn.