A Coracle Ride
I squat on one side
of the basket – boat,
ready to be propelled across
the green river’s girth.
by the weights of
it threatens to tip over –
and I feel a heat rise up my legs.
Soon they are soaked
in a cocktail of sweat –
my own thanks to the heat,
that from the taut arms
of the oarsman,
that from the frame
of woven reed underneath –
enmeshed with the fruit of toil,
of a long forgotten artisan.
Prayer (a sonnet)
Sandalwood fumes form a half curtain,
lamps and incense cast an orange glow,
Multi colored flowers, tulsi garlands,
compete with each other as they cling
to the perfectly chiseled dainty form.
The toll of bells – electric, deafening,
drowns out the hastily whispered prayers.
Traces of milk, turmeric
on the floor of the sanctum santorum-
remnants of the holy abishekam,
performed earlier, with due diligence
by the priest, clad in his pure white dothi.
She stands still, hoping to bury the pain
within the pleats of the goddess’ sari.
* * *
Sindhuja Ramasubramanian is a software engineer and a freelance writer based out of Bangalore, India. Her work (including essays, poetry and short fiction) has appeared in newspapers and journals like The Hindu, Muse India, eFiction India, The Reading Hour and The Tower Journal. She blogs at http://picturesquereflections.wordpress.com/.