I love my mother’s sari on the washing line
Flapping like a giant flag, which I pretend is mine.
I love its silky softness when it’s folded to a square
Which I can roll into a ball and pretend it isn’t there.
I love to hold its free bit that swings over mum’s back
And wrap it round my shoulders, like a potato in a sack.
I love the pleats that fall in shape and spread out like a fan
Where my kid brother crouches and says ‘catch me if you can.’
I love to wash my dirty hands at the kitchen sink
And wipe them on mum’s sari before she can even blink.
But when she takes her anchal and ties it round her waist
I know it’s time for battle and a quick escape is best!
About this poem
The anchal is the free bit at the end of the sari that is slung over the shoulder.