Who are these people
with their painted
smiles and morose celebrations
of unhappy truths?
Who vacillate between
unfixed positions, forever
standing at knife-edged
thresholds and doorways -
unable to return, and always
disallowed entry into the hallowed
precincts of masculine sanctums.
It is at the edge of the page,
that they molest her quiet devotion,
And underneath her
many-coloured blouses, petticoats, saris, bindis, bangles
anklets, and the blood-red sindoor marking
the cleavage of her body,
resonates the unasked question -
...
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