What she wove thenMira lifts the cloth from her lap,lets the morning sun pass through it.The threads catch the light—not gold, not silver,but something warmer.She does not speak.There are no mantras here,only breath, only cloth. The room smells like old cotton,fresh cooked rice,cardamom,memory baked into the walls.Her granddaughter sits on the floor,sketchbook open, pencil forgotten.“Is…