The land recedes, the Ganga flows with force

beneath,

the craft ploughs on into the night

through the mysterious mangroves: the Sundarbans

where looking hard enough

would trace a history of torment

in the submerged thicket

Look at the reckless moon, polished to perfection –

in this burning, phosphorous-tinged light?

What is the verdict Passepartout?

Have we gathered enough of wisdom's trinkets

to build our

Fatehpur Sikri? – to mason our wronged cities right?

Have we stacked enough translucent marble of white

enough of lingams?

Or are we caught in the yatra-yatri of our passage?

Is the brain too meek

to cope with its malish-wallahs? in this burning, phosphorous-tinged

light?

What is the verdict?

Have we seen good men, better women, have we an evangel

to preach

on of the joy of the wretched, the ill-shaped

sedition, rebellion, to stitch a warrior-kite?

Have we garnered enough of filth and coral

Enough of blue-hued gods?

Or are we caught within the unfinished dream?

Is our love too weak

to share with all

to share once and for all? In this burning, phosphorous-tinged light?

Have we defined India, Passepartout, what is the verdict?

Have we swallowed enough of the wildness of gods the kindness of saints to charm

new cobras of the mind, chafing alligators

of the deep distress and tygers,

tygers of the forests of the night? Is now the distress

of the dalit or the whore eternal?

Are we forever the forever strange?

Is our quest too strange

to speak of

and stranger still our hearts to all? In this phosphorous-tinged light?

What is a verdict?

I named the waves

I burnt my skin

I licked the stars

For you

I gathered salt

I touched the sun

Caressed a Whale

For you