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By the Hoogly River at
the Flower Market,
it was one long Oh!
The colours poignant
vibrating splashes, infusing
the air with a fragrance
overwhelming,
ushering me along.
I was floating on feelings,
walking on clouds, suspended
in wonder that I should be here,
walking by your side; you,
in your brilliant redish-green sari,
embodied in your body beautiful,
pointing out nature's exuberance.
You were the rebellious rebel,
your typical Bengal tiger, you said,
supplely possessive, evasively free,
existing between God's two realities.
You swore you had access to both,
as we watched from a distance
the semi-naked wrestlers caked in mud
by the river's bank. You explained
that this was the difference,
this in-between which
the female occupied,
this in-between between earth and sky,
spirit and flesh. A rootless, weightless
terrain where what takes root
grows into love.
By the Hoogly River, you and I,
watching a fellow deity float away
from the river's bank,
the bridge in the distance.
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