Photo credits: commons.wikimedia.org

THE GHUNGROO

As I cross the threshold—
from dust to textured stone—
the pitter-patter of a child’s feet
gives way to the first sound of anklets.

And as I dedicate my life,
a life not for me to choose —
too young to understand —
a destiny bound before I was free.

I begin to sync with
nature’s rhythm—
waking in darkness, pre-dawn,
my feet learning their quiet beat.
A life bent toward God—
in His world, but not mine.
In solitude, within His compound, I live.

As time flows, I shed that first skin,
my innocence retained, unmarked.

It’s time for the festivals —
God’s keepers consent
to men’s gaze;
for in devotion dance becomes divinity.

The rhythmic beat of tabla,
its notes bounce on chiselled walls,
dancing with echoes through the cracks —
a resonance, divine.

The arc light cuts through the stillness —
the crowd, with bated breath,
aware of my presence.
My feet — the moving sound,
their breath and my rhythm intertwined,
till the blur as I twirl —
a hundred bells in the air,
in perfect synchrony.

As from my trance I emerge,
I notice your moist eyes, your face.
Have we met before — in another life?
I am drawn,
but my feet are bound by music;
its echoes, my boundaries.
I cannot cross the threshold —
I have given my life to the Supreme.

One bell slips loose—warm on skin.
Metal finds its weight,
searching for release—
or what we believe is God’s will.

THE POTTER

Muddied, I dig deep,
the exhilarating coolness,
in the scorching sun,
tranquil,
an extension of earth
or of me.
A need to create—
of desire, or necessity.
No time to pause—
as the frenzy builds,
the wheel blurs—keeps the earth’s rhythm,
at the centre, true.
In the blur, I stretch,
and merge.
Hands glide on slick grey clay,
shape gathers—
desire’s pull, or the hands’ craft.

I believe I control—
life takes shape
at the flick of my wrist.
I stretch and give it
too much height—
a brief vantage
before the slide.
Compact, cramped—
closer to the ragged dampness,
Composed, I see—
the form I have lost,
not me.
I begin to climb,
not in height, but in width.
Sideways I stretch,
in the hollow I make
space for love and longing.
In these circles,
I overreach—
collapse; and begin again.
And finally, almost flawless—
the wheel’s momentum,
and I in synchrony.
I hear whispers—
two maybes:
a striving towards perfection,
remoulding;
or permanence—
of fire-hardened clay, an illusion;
what hardens can no longer yield,
only crack.

Broken, ground, scattered—
waiting for the rain to be clay.

THE TATTOO

The monotony of my past,
caught in a white, pressed shirt—
the sameness
decides who I can be.

In the gridded city’s sprawl,
a glass door sighs; a small bell rings—
as I walk in.
A goddess in ink asks me:
What do you want to be?

I’m not sure; I let her guide.
Gloved touch. The hum. The skin breaks.
Pain—my body revolts; blood and ink blur to the rhythm
of her breathing. I meet her eyes—
I begin to change
before the blood can dry.

Into the dark I walk—
a new skin neon-lit.

There’s that pull—
I’m back, back at her door.
The needle awaits.
As the old skin sheds, I come alive.

As cities change,
the names stay.
There was her. Then more.
Names etched beneath the skin.
Sleeves rolled—bare skin—
I bask in direct sunlight—
with each glare,
the sun sips a little ink,
fading, until only memorials remain—
fragments of me
pinned in time.

As I keep moving, I leave some of me behind;
more etchings as I go.
Space runs out—
I button the shirt.
Fragments held by seam and ink.
Back in white.