Visiting Kaali in Sadar Bazaar, Meerut Cantt
Where unfolds the temple lanelike a slim invite, a masjid rests undera sun-draped dome. Inside, a gurudwara facesthe Devi’s open door. Who was here first? These streetsor the multi-roofed piety, snug with all our doubts, tripled.
A turbaned little man, emerald-eyed,tanned, and cradled in his maa’s arms,sells prasad and Devi’s shringar. The chunrisshed their red under his cart’s cover. The masjid’sgreen paint is anxious to melt. Heard is summer’s prayer.
As always, She is an image in black:Which closed eyes divined Her thus? I wonderhow Her rage is colourless. Bearing heads & arms,why does She neglect guts as ornaments? I believe in questioningmy Goddesses. Heavy hangs Her tongue coated in gold film.
She’s the Mother, not the first, whose hands offerand strike in equal benefaction. Between Her nakedimage and our Oedipal misimagination, bleeds the wombof possibility. All dichotomies beget a song. Maybe, She chosethis—to enter and blind our starving vision in an unending dance.
I do not wait in the serpentine linewith others, don’t wait to meet the Divine.Just stare at Shiva pinned above Her: a hovering,flattened, paper-born cloud. The crowd uncurls its palms,beseeching or bribing. I only wish to be let into Her dreams.
Clink, clink, clink: the coins shudderin a lady’s bowl by the exit. A cow swallowsthrough a litany of full hands, my shoulder shiesaway from the blessing of its chawar-tail. I leave easy,untouched, as clay-eyed Gods stare from behind a glass display.
Outside, the sun is once again a stubborn and obliviousalmighty. It does not fall on slippers jostling for spaceor tired prayers rioting to be heard—it cannot discern chaosfrom chorus. At night, the hour open, all the holy voices off-dutymust gather outside, tell the moon about their day, roaming freely.
NowI only think of the little man with the turban.Will he hold these streets dearonce he has grown biggereyes—will he find themworthy of a song?
Ritual
It’s morning, and best to facethe sun through the window.The feeding, burning thing withno eyes to tell anyone apart.Fine, there’s a mat, and a podcastabout beauty, and nails digginginto the mat. Sometimes, the bodyanswers, like an ocean heaving—it answers with a prayer.The plants must be parched,the bees, too. A broken hair crawlson the floor—is it praying too?Once you begin counting the days,everything unravels.Clothes with creasedmemories, meltedbutter, crackedsparrow eggsthe dog sniffs. When you work,you must like to think of something.Look, it’s morning, and the sun is dying.
Roadkill as Representation
It must have been convenient to be splayed apartin an instant, guts and fur kissing the concrete.A monument of inside turned outward.
Flesh ripped from its frame, led so very astray,flesh one with the air, flesh as the final act,flesh, bloody flesh, the last remaining fact.
The city continued like a song on repeat.The pedestrians sliced their way with ease.From the moving window—only a bloodless blur.
What did it think when the wheels met its eyes?Who hasn’t thought of dying once in a while?It gave some spirit to the gravel,
the splatter of squelching pink.Impossible to spot any hint of bonesor penultimate wishes.
Oh, to spoon her up—like a relic fit for a museum.Look! Think! The cat wasn’t always like this.Wouldn’t you prefer this to all other forms of vanishing?
