We sat in the afternoon in the shadows of ancient trees
Paying our tribute to the lady who had died ,of excess life.
At two we were treated to a sumptuous feast in her honor,
As though it was her wish that we should be so treated.
After all she was sharing her surplus life here with us.
You write poetry in Sanskrit ? Asks somebody from a plastic chair.
Where was the promised river bank where we invoke her spirit
Amid deep-throated Sanskrit chants and smoking holy fires?
There is no river bank here but ancient red walled storied structures .
Here well-fed priests call down the spirits of our dead by sonorous chants.
All the while she smiles there beatifically, in the hall, from the inertness
Of her flower-garlanded two-dimensional existence of a photo-frame.
As though some of the excess life she had died of is still spilling .