Tyeb Mehta

The blood of Mahisasura dripping from her wrists
His decapitation each year, year after year

I like that story of Krishna
At the back of his throat, she could see, the whole universe
The sun, moon, stars, asteroids and meteors – his tonsils and uvula
Did he eat them all?

You offer aparajita and bhel leaves to Shiv
And, hibiscus for Ma, mandaar, here touch the petals gently

All this jasmine I sit threading into gajras for her hair
Every summer – the smell of heated cement and sleeping tulsi
Look at how the saptrishi glow, they call it the Big Dipper here
And, what do they call matsya? Oh, he’s the big fish

Streets coiled like the braids of his hair
Ganga gushes forth
Will a tandav redeem this world?

They don’t let you take pictures post visarjan
All those floating body parts
Pieces

Did he say the world went on unashamed?
Mahisasura needs to be killed yearly
Flowers offered daily
I tell her I like Krishna
He laughs
Nothing more melodious than the sound of anklets on little feet