The woven ink on her hand is no longer woven
Swirled to the ebony stains of kitchen.
The turning of Eleven;
She wore the hood of women
Being the eternal she left the bottle of ink and a quire of papers sealed by closed chain.
From yard to oven or earth to fire
From a larger wishlist to a hope for others
From little her long for the womanhood to unfold.
Her wishes are all in fold of a folder on a table above.
Who shall reach forth to read the folder above?
Who shall reach there to unfold?
Wishes are written in white, hopes in purple.
She learned to drape the culture with the whispers of yore in eleven.
She’s now skilled with a saree in the flame of kitchen.
All ages lie in wait for the streaming dishes fresh from the flame,
Whom shall ask abt the missed name?
All would linger out a a wood of women fulfilled with thousands.
Among the clinks of beauty and duties, bangles and tide
She is in a bengali womanhood’s ride.
Experienced through bygones;
The little houses whisper-
‘A bengali woman rises again and again..
Keep longings forbidden, breathe to be taken.
In trials of battle and fierce long
She whispered her strength in whimsical song.’
