Saras

but constellations scattered across

the boundless sky of your body,

drawn by my unrestrained lips.

The chalice of my throat brims with nectar,

your eyes-shy, overflowing-wander without sound,

without melody.

Before Brahma himself began his design,

I traced upon your back

the glistening line of the Swati star,

and youth was drenched in its rain.

Before the mirror, as you comb your hair,

each fleeting change of expression

fashions a secret language of love.

I do not know you

not more than I know your mysteries;

is what binds me to you

proof of your being,

or the poet’s fragile imagining?

All arts, all knowledge

hard-won till now,

slip into oblivion

what remains is only

your name.

The lantern’s flame grows dim,

the temple doors are bolted shut.

This is the hour of rapture,

the time of love.

I never said I was a saint…

"Toilet" by Y.G. Srimati, a 20th-century Indian artist from Mysore, depicts a woman in a traditional South Indian setting, likely preparing herself, reflecting Srimati’s focus on everyday subjects with a devotional and naturalistic style.

Srimati, trained in Indian classical music, dance, and painting, often infused her work with cultural and spiritual elements, blending the heroic and the human—her 1947-48 painting of the goddess Saraswati, for instance, was originally part of her family’s altar, showcasing her deep ties to tradition.

Your Body Whispers Signs of Love

so tender,

that a mere touch

might bruise

your delicate skin.

I am afraid—

how can I love,

when even a simple embrace

holds such yearning

it keeps my heart beating—

else breath

would have long left my throat.

This map of lines and curves,

cover it, O Goddess—

I fear it may fall

into a plunderer’s hands.

You are priceless.

Let not your mysteries

be scattered

here and there.

Within your form

lies the horoscope

of every poet's longing—

here awakens

the sacred night of desire,

here the lamp of day

burns out.

To meet you

is like reaching

the gates of salvation.

Among the awakened words of verse,

I remain

the unawakened one.

She gives pearls and flowers

She gives songs and dreams

This is the veil of youth

Beyond it, desires are born and die—

Desires that melt the body with their burning heat.

You are the embodiment of coolness,

To turn fire into ice

Is the art held in your hands.

The illusion of an embrace—

He who never understood it all his life

Is your eternal slave.

You are his museum of wonders.