the husband
dons himself in pure white,
the wife, I, seen in cotton sari
made of hand loom. Starched
and pressed.
It may be an old school
of thought – the way
we have been and we are
a pattern of our own, a
style different.
Our desire shows orthodoxy,
seen in the simple food we eat
explicit in our modest living
where there is no room for partying
Frugal could be the term.
Our house lies open through the day.
We close the doors in the evening
as mosquitoes spring into action.
The ethnic abode expresses
dignity and exclusiveness.
Old fashioned we are
Well, how will we be then?
as we grow old day by day,
grey hair and sagging skin.
We, ourselves look like a relic.
Meenas Poems 