My dhoti had a red border.
The dhobi used to grumble:
Every time I wash it
The whole dhoti is stained.
I wonder where all this red comes from.
I have seen some like this before:
Arrogant, unruly, putting on airs.
 
Finally he lost his patience;
Hello, let me see if I can set this bloody red right.
 
He was very late with the washing this time.
Like a judge solemnly opening a file to read out a verdict
He silently opened the bundle of clothes.
The dhoti was white and fresh
And as handsome as a townsman.
But when I unfolded it
I saw it was all in tatters.
It had been beaten black and blue
On the hard cement slab
And all the blood red
Had been squeezed out of its veins.
 
But,
The rest of the clothes in the bundle
Had all turned red.
All the lakes and rivers
Had turned red.