by Saikat Das
The goddess immersed in herself
Was playing the Veena
The swan at her feet listening intently
Had no intention
To get into the slimy water, so close
They have raised a wooden platform
In the middle of the pond
There the goddess sat
With her swan
Unmindful that her platform
Would come down any time
But it stood there;
The loud speaker blasted through
All the night
But she carried on quietly
Or somewhat aloof as befits a god
They whirled in tiny rafts around her
Brawling about
their newly acquired girl friends
How they picked them up;
The night gave in
And she played on
I saw her from my balcony
That overlooks the pond:
Her white sari, the flawless hands
Playing the Veena,
The way she sat
And had to
I only tried to feel
Sitting in my cozy armchair
What it takes to be a god
The goddess of speech remained speechless, uncomplaining.
The world around her played with her,
Serious games with mantras and the sacrificial fire,
A thousand offerings
All to be consumed by men and men alone
And when the sport is over
They will throw her
Into that slimy water
To become clay again
Only her straw-skeleton will float up
The boys will bring it back
For the goddess, next year.
