Hope

I want to
press against you
into pages of
a book.
Maybe then
you’ll see me slip
to the floor in pretty
patterns
when you open
that chapter
again. Someday.

Play

Yellow dhotis, caps
sweaters, robes
jostle for space on
the ghats.
One hundred and two
sunset priestlings
(can I call them that?)
offer Aarti to the
flowing ganges; they
chant loudly, noisily,
sometimes in and
mostly a little off-
tune.

Saffron marigold
petals float alongside
wishes; temple bells
dance to the sound of
prayers; the unstill river
stills my mind.

Twilight blurs my
vision and then
unexpectedly tears too,
as I catch him
surreptitiously cheekily
unraveling wool from
his neighbour’s
sweater; forgetting
(in those moments)
to chant.

He may well be a priest, yes,
I think, as I watched him play
unguarded.
But isn’t he really
really, just a little
boy?




Travellete 3 - Haridwar, On the banks of the river Ganga, Nov 2005.

Measure

He holds my hand,
squeezes it gently;
Ram pyari do
Mangala ek,
(and something else
I couldn't quite catch)
he yells at
a wrinkled old man sitting
in a tiny room behind him.

Magically almost,
orange green pink
sparkling twinkling
music-laden
bangles slide
effortlessly
up my arms and
into my heart.

How did you know my size,
I ask him curiously,
you didn’t even
measure.

When you’ve held hands
with many women,
he replies mockingly,
you know
everything.




Travellete 2 - Bangle Walla, Sarojini Nagar Market, Delhi, November 2005.