My mother’s beautiful hands adorned in mehendi.





In the beyond lie the restless ashes of romances

Flickering as the daylight wakes them,

Singing their arrival.

But this place is not theirs,

And they will not stay.

No matter how desperately we look upon them.


At the hands of the tribal, I was slayed,

At the hands of the dancing beast of the forest.

He tied rocks to my ankles and I couldn’t complain,

Tormented, I was, when they merged with my skin.

Over the moons, it pricked each vein.

It pained me so but didn’t bleed.


Finally, when the rocks fell in weary defeat,

I picked them up, clasped them in my palms

And struck my toes bloody.