As I open the cupboard I see a green skirt. It has an interesting genesis. A couple of weeks ago she was wearing this chikan-work kurta, a beautiful henna green. I loved it and said so. We cannot share clothes because we are built differently.
A day later, folded on my bed was what I thought was the kurta. I unfurled it and found to my amazement that she had cut the top portion at the yoke, inserted an elastic band and transformed it into a skirt I could wear.
I held it close to my face before slipping it on. Several detergent washes may have taken away the scent of a mother, but every stitch on it reminds me that we are connected by a thread that is beautiful and strong at the same time.