She lost one eye to glaucoma,
The same year that she lost her husband,
What she did not lose throughout the ordeal
Were her courage, her spark, and her sense of humour.
“It is easier to thread a needle with one eye.”
She chuckled at the pun with utmost glee.
Two one-eyed warriors on a wicker chair,
One piercing the fabric of time,
While the other impaled 4 layers of cotton.
“One can dream just as well with just one eye.”
Grandma enjoyed the most restful sleep.
It was the only time her needle would get a break
From creating beautiful blooms on barren cloth.
Her nimble fingers would never stop moving,
As yards of thread curled up to create intricate art.
Her embroidery was her way to unwind with the thread,
To conceal her sorrows and struggles
In the web of shiny and colourful yarn.
Her needle was more potent than a paint brush.
Her tablecloths and bed sheets told stories
Of the gardens and rooftops from her childhood.
They were adorned with caricatures
Of furry pet dogs and goats, long dead.
If you looked closely, you would find her too,
A girl in a pink frock, with two pigtails.
Her face looked different but her smile was the same,
Broad and cheerful, a few teeth missing.
Her vision became foggy as the days went by,
The tremors and trembles of old age arrived.
She still kept sewing sequins on Mother’s saris,
And darning the holes in our socks.
She slipped into a coma the day she finished her masterpiece,
A portrait of her family embroidered on blue silk.
Do not place a white shroud over her just yet,
Place an unmonogrammed handkerchief by her side instead,
I am sure that the one-eyed warrior will rise again.