Sunday Affair

I tell my Brahma today
I’m going to worship sounds
and syllables, my medium’s Vedas;
Don’t expect me 
to join the discourse or the devotees.

Strip off the bra,
turn off the phone, don a kurta 
free of sleeves, skirt without buttons,
pull on up in a gathering of gold and fuchsia.

I’m on my train, the screen plugged in—
watch me drive, God, no speedometer;
prepare to stop, yes, Ganga—
no pulling of chains, no shunting,
no named stations to page.

The loved ones don’t know what work
takes such solitude. I’m not pickling cukes,
or gestating a baby;
It’s that thing you know, God, that work.

Something to create from room’s silence,
sleeping lamp and old window, the ceiling fan stuck in its rut;
alphabets playing musical chair indoor-outdoor
with shadows on the wall, this morning unfolding; 
yes, my Brahma, my affair.