The moment this embroidery Kantha stitch came before my eyes,
It comes to my mind it was once shown to me when my sister was alive.
So many years she passed away, my poor younger sister, I never
Forget her, and for so many divergent works, she performed,
Either in parent’s house, or in her husband’s house,
She became curators of all happenings around her, and we
are mare observers on her destiny, leaving behind one daughter
And one son, who are perhaps suffered harsh terms of living
With life, in their father’s home of loneliness.
I get hurt at every event she suffers,
Introduced one lie, about her death,
I believe something; do not believe many things,
She is no more, but covers surroundings,
In my mind she is an idol of sorrow,
And for that I roam places of
Importance where she moved while alive,
Only seemingly feeling of missing links arrives,
I do not want to hear it, and leave the place,
This homemade Jessor Kantha embroidery makes me
Remember, catastrophically remember this world
Lonely and nostalgically evidence of my younger sister’s past
And present latitude of message of her pain stitched.