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I.

the cool marble floor
feels like heaven.
for i have walked
barefoot in the hot sun,
to be with krishna.

but the velvet curtains
are drawn shut for now.
a stern saffron-clad priest
insists on quiet, “shh!
the gods are resting”.

i hush the rustle
of my dupatta.
don’t allow bangles
to ask any questions.
and silence any answers
my silver anklets
want to give.

but how can i quell
the longing,
saturated in my eyes?

such brazen display!
if anybody should notice
they would not approve.
i lower my lashes,
and wait.
like everybody else.

II.

i’m not like the others.
my god does not rest
but i’m in the temple.
do i know why i’m here?

no prayer beads to turn
no heaviness to unburden.
no divine intervention to ask for.
not even flowers to offer.

temples were for others.
who needed to be rescued
from one trouble or another.
“har-e rama, har-e- krishna!”

i wouldn’t want him
to take away what i’ve found
after such a long wait..
i’m delirious in love.
or is it just jasmine
and sandalwood?


III.

the curtains rise
the collective prayers
of the people waiting
surge past me.
i stand rooted.
i don’t know what to do.

the camphor is lit,
the chanting begins.

i ought to notice
the shiny jewels
in the peacock feather crown,
the jasmine at your wrists,
and roses around your neck,
your golden flute,
that has mesmerized your flock
for thousands of years.

all that i see is your smile.
and the fool that i am,
what do i do?
i close my eyes.

only to hear
a familiar laugh
ringing in my ears.