Twilight glints
along my veena strings
stretched almost
to breaking
as faces drift past,
their footsteps hurrying
to the warmth
of homes smelling of khichdi—
coins vanishing with a clink
into blue donation boxes.
I feel the sting of blood
on my cracked lips
as a breeze brushes by
and slips into a bamboo grove—
flute notes.
A peacock feather
torn at its eye
falls near my feet.
I rub its softness
against the blue veins
of my wrist
and tuck it into
a pouch ripped
from the hem
of my saree.
Cupping my hands,
I take a handful of Yamuna
and splash it on my face.
The last trace of my vermilion
trickles away
into the darkening waters.
With chipped fingernails,
I etch कृष्ण
on the peeling trunk
of a banyan tree
and curl
into its shade
like a pinch of kumkum
pressed into a tilak.
One half of the moon rises
in the ripples
while the other remains
a belief.
Notes
कृष्ण: Krishna.
