I look back to being a Kashmiri shawl embracing a Bengali woman
saying her evening prayers in a barely cold Kolkata December. Or
lying in the stillness of a still-hatching morning around the body of the fifteen-year-old almost woman reading Tagore when she should not. I remember the ups and downs and curves in those bodies: felt through layers of clothing, but still distinct. Today my frayed embroidery and faded colours is a forbidden love, so I am locked up in a trunk of never-more-used woolens smelling of shampoo in a damp attic, looking forward to nothing.