He, sweats in the dim light
Smokes a cheap bidi-
All the while rubbing his hand
On his lean body.
He ties the strings slowly
Involving every bamboo strip
And gives it the shape of a woman-
He plasters it with love and mud
Both intermingling in bouts
And the lamp grows dimmer by the time
And the memories stronger with every stroke.
He painted her eyes, her lips,
And carved her hair, and sharpened her nose
And then he paused to inspect the resemblance
And then moved to paint some more.
He had made Durga in her image
The image of his dead wife.
And in the nudge of his sculpting tools,
He had brought her to life.
Then he sold her for a 10000.
For sometimes you sell love,