Statues that have lost a nose here, an ear there to forces of wind and water, even as they gained centuries — Doves using them for nesting, love-making, chick-rearing and besmirching — Cows ambling sacredly bestowing dung for unwary pilgrims to step on — Goats shedding pellets instead of blood — Pilgrims waiting for the doors to open, and VIPs lining up for their 'special' darshan — Banana, papaya, margosa, sal and rain trees in silent contemplation — The drizzle that seems to be nature's ticklish sense of humour — Pandas in their red bearings and unbearability — The distant Brahmaputra which is always a presence — Among all this should I still say that because she gave me no darshan Kamakhya is cruel to me?
The message is supreme;
Born in the heart,
and lilting itself
from tongue to tongue,
throwing its scent
over wind and wave;
travelling on dots
or fingers
when blindness
or silence bar its way.
It hews itself into stone
or burns itself onto magnetic discs;
it is the message that lives
and I exist
solely to pass it on.