Remember? After completing the designs,
you stretched the cloth across the frame
and fastened it with pins.
You always had beeswax-bars
in your pocket; smudging the silk
to avoid pigmentation. It looked
allid with the paraffin etched on its skin.
I took up where you left. Picking
colours—one or two, with a hint
of gloss. I daubed...daubed; colours rich
in subdued shades. Mixing and separating.
Nothing could seep in
I wrung till the veins didn’t
crack. Dye-bathed till the colours
didn’t make seepage patterns.
The thousand suns has melted
the surface. The fabric now
is a vintage batik, mounted
on the walls, for the people to marvel.