Meeting of the contrasts-

a perfection and a nothing

niched in walls

of yellow, red , blue,

white and black

(and the non-committal neutral

the dark nothingness

which would null everything eventually)

layered with

prickly thorns like laser beams

ready to turn incendiary,

shackles and reins guarding the doors,

 

nonetheless,

the chanting wind and the flooding river

spread their melody and aroma over eons.

 

Concrete roofs

overshadow the love garden

and the ones with umbrellas

sitting underneath

scramble to find

and pick shreds:

 

a piece of silk

a stem of peacock feather

a droplet of a ear pendant

a twig of the kadamba tree

a piece of bamboo

a sliver of a song

a spatter of churned butter

a tingle from a cowbell

a few drops of the muddied river

 

and

 

try to assemble back the puzzle

shaking a few pieces

pooled by the neighbours

who may not all be on talking terms;

 

some call it:

history

some:

myth

some:

epic

some:

just a story

 

of Radha and Krishna

 

but

rarely one ever dares

to take a dip

while waiting all the time

to be inundated by

the drying river.