The bangles were her dancing femininity in the broad daylight.
The vivid hues of her playful soul were told in the colours of her bangles.
From fourteen he worked in a factory that made bangles. Fifteen hours a day of toil, one meal at midnight, then a few hours of sleep before beginning once more. No daylight. No love. No windows. No sense of the weeks nor months that passed. He'd left home with the heart of a hero, as a boy who wanted to feed his family, and here he lived in a coffin, coughing, a trafficked child. He worked machines, poured metal, produced pretty things for petty prices. How is it that items that cost so much soul are sold for so few cents?
Those bangles were my aunt, I guess that's a silly way to say it. But they were the liberty of her spirit somehow, the light from their rainbow hues matching the light in her heart and soul. They would make a sound that was a sort of laughter, and she laughed so very much. So those bangles, and those bright, bright sari's, the ones that brought summer blooms and petals to my imagination, that was her.
The colours of my brightest dreams danced upon the bangles.
Our love of nature, of divine creation and our sense of wonder was told in our bangle art.