I don’t know sari woman

SJ Sindu | Poetry

But her eyes reach out to me across the 95A bus east to the river where I will teach her daughter
to not listen to her wisdoms. Sari woman’s eyes are pebbles from a sea I’ve forgotten. She still
swims there every night and sometimes days when her vision clouds with brine. Sari woman
cleans houses, chops other people’s salads, packs boxes in factories, sews tiny brand labels onto
the necks of t-shirts. She cooks spicy mutton and leaves a clay pot on the bank of the river. I
watch sari woman from my third story cement office. I’m talking to her daughter. Don’t look
back, I tell her. Your mother’s tears will fill the sea. Don’t stop. You could drown.