Her weary sandals take a hesitant
Refuge besides the stingy shoes.
The saree retires to the wardrobe,
And the withered jasmines,
Part ways from her braids.
Her body is transferred to
Another uniform- a gown.
Then the vegetables are cut,
Rotis are prepared and only when
The third whistle of the cooker
Screams to the appeals of
The hungry stomachs..
For a brief while, everyone feels,
Her presence.
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