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.
