When the Goddess meets Ganges…
The trance is over.
And all that is left of the splendour,
Are the bare bamboo structures,
Un-assembled in silence.
The silks and taants and embroidered kurtas,
Find their way back to the hard-to-reach closets.
The striped ties take centre-stage again,
Like noose tightening around our nine-to-five lives.
As the dhaakis pack up and go home to their villages,
The street dogs claim back their spot as the noise-makers of
night.
With the communal loudspeakers gone,
We resort to our self-centred headphones.
The warm embrace during sindoor-khela and bijoya,
Are forgotten overnight.
The lukewarm “hellos”, or worse still,
The conscious avoidance of eye contact during rush hour,
Become the norm once again.
When the Goddess meets Ganges…
The trance is over.
We have nowhere to hide,
From the bare-chested, dirt-clad children on the street,
To whom, the promise of “asche bochor abar hobe”,
Mean nothing at all.
