Our flowers and leaves and fruit are here in silver-white plates of morning fragrance ,from burning incenses, flames of camphor. Our waters stream between lips and palms. Our flowers shall be flung at his framed picture.
Come face to face with the elephant head that laughs on a rounded stomach of sweets ,the head of a trunk from a severed north on a child’s torso standing guard on mother’s bath.
The father is egotistical of a divine drum dance ,he that dances in snow hills of a blue poison throat that cannot wait to see wife bathing in cave, he that smears his body with our common death-wish.
His prankster son has to eat in his stomach. Pock-marked moon laughs at his bloated stuff. We all love him the way he pats his stomach when he will pace up and down on our roof after a heavy meal of rice cakes and jaggery.
( Ganesha, the elephant-god visits us every year in September)