This yellow saree she wore Just once in her life had wrapped A coy twenty-year-old bride Tentatively setting her dainty foot Into the hesitant bridal home .
Somewhere in the backwoods Several industrious silkworms Had spun miles of salivary yarn In the foliage of the mulberry tree To make this golden yellow saree .
The rustle of her silk drowned The wails of the boiling cocoons The worms died that beauty would live In their plaintive cries lay bridal hopes .
My mother, the bride of yesteryears, Is now as non-existent as the worms That had ceased to exist spinning The smooth silk for her bridal finery .
Her bridal fragrance lives on among The delicate folds of these gossamer silks That the worms had died weaving. Death is so fragrant , so memorable.