Mother

I came back home last night to die. Mother was waiting on the porch. She was wearing the red bordered white saree whose red had become a pale orange and the white yellow with the repetitive years of soiling and washing. As she stood there erect, hands to hips, I could see her back as the house could. But the erect frame belied the hollow weakness that the tortuous years had carved within. Around her and the lonely house crickets were chirruping in the dark night