Her hair is long, dark, luscious.
It weaves its serpentine way down her narrow back,
pausing to caress her dainty neck before sweeping down,
dipping into the small of her back.
It finally rests at the point where bottom curves outward,
splaying out in a graceful fan.
She wears a ruby sari embroidered with gold thread,
which she drapes around her,
trailing the last few inches as she walks along.
On her slim wrists, bangles play a tinkling melody as she does her chores.
Gold rings punctuate her ears and one nostril.
Her skin is the shade of caramel, with a hint of coffee.
On her forehead, a bejewelled bindi sparkles, lighting her way.
When she washes her husband's feet on his return from a hard day at work,
she deeps her hennaed hands in a bowl of warm, scented water,
then rubs them along his soles.
She massages his heels and tickles him when her fingers run between his toes.
Her head is bent in concentration.
Her hair forms a curtain around the bowl, making the act a private one.
In her quiet way,
she dreams, she lives, she works.
What are her hopes, her fears, her desires?