By Dhritiman Lal
Yes, I do savvy your rights, but fruit bats are
dropping dead of heat waves, and Shimla
yagya fire mountain pines
cannot snuff out that night
when Gautama held Yashodhara
one last time, deeply,
as she lay asleep, before he forsook
everything. Not a sound,
you waited
before the advent of electricity,
as remote darkness
as kusa grass,
as kheer moonlight.
And where was I, or maybe you were that
peak, unattainable begum, I saw
among the far dust-smeared crowd—
your illustrious procession,
elephants, gold mohurs, dhol sticks.
Now the amaltas tree on that path is felled,
to make space for a schoolyard where
swarthy children multiply on their fingers.