she has to rush to the terrace.
No one has to tell her.
No one else has to go to
fetch those dry clothes.
The rules seem to be ironclad
and the process is efficiently
automatised.
It rains, and she has to
rush up, down and sideways
to bring the dry clothes she
herself has washed.
The kids play in the hallway,
husband is hooked to the
TV even on holidays.
Can't outsource it to the
in-laws obviously, and to crib
about the same, by now,
her mom is far far away.
Ohh it rains and she has to
rush to gather a lots of clothes.
The variety of shirts, jeans,
uniforms, t-shirts, shorts,
socks, jersey, innerwears
and what not.
The heap of it piles on a
cot and it need to be
tended into neat folds.
It rains, and even if it doesn't,
she has to do it anyway.
Fold them, sort and keep
them separately in closet.
and while she does that l,
one day she'll realise-
How amidst the heap,
what's hers is just a bra,
panty and a faded gown-
A silent uniform she
wears in rotation.
Her retired jeans and
tank tops laugh for being
reduced to this identity but
the sarees under suspension
comfort her occasionally by
being unnecessarily elaborate.
How long this can go is
the question, and
almost everytime,
"what to cook for dinner"
snatches away the answer.