Musings of an Undercover Yogi

Sunset heralds another evening of heart-thumping anticipation.
Prayers accompanied with fragrant incense smoke emit devotion.
Silver anklets tinkle, yellow silk rustles, gold bangles jingle, vermilion streaks my forehead.
Like every evening, I dress up to welcome the Maharaja, roses adorning my head.

Helpers scurry away when it’s time; silence engulfs the royal boudoir.
Humming Tagore’s tunes, I tidy up the colossal bed; then on a book, I bend over.
Time passes by; from the Paan I chew, Kattha dyes my lips scarlet.
Suddenly it strikes—is the husband errant again? And here I wait!

Elsewhere, exquisite chandeliers illuminate the Zamindar and his dancer.
The graceful temptress sways to percussion beats of the master.
Glasses clink, liquor flows out to sate ever-parched lips.
Ittar ignites hidden passion, swirls around intoxicated wisps.

The opulence of the music room overshadows the elegance of my boudoir.
Fresh Jasmine and Tuberose blooms overpower homely incense-lit air.
My amateur Tagore renditions surrender to connoisseur’s skillful ragas.
My Payal exudes quiet dignity, her Ghunghru revels in rhythmic sagas.

Storm rages in my heart, eyes shed silent tears of defeat.
Later, I sip delicately-spiced tea; it tastes different tonight!
My throat burns, the fire spreads; I collapse and hallucinate.
While parting from my body, do I see the Maharaja’s portrait?

A century has passed, the decadent Roy Chowdhury clan wiped off since.
Tentacles of decay entangle the palace, yet faded grandeur does it evince.
Framed on a dilapidated wall I remain, often recreate that fateful night.
From pillar to post I wander, sometimes amidst a sliver of moonlight.

What is a body but a perishable vehicle! The soul lasts forever.
To reunite with lost love I wait, as Chataka waits for rainwater.

– Bijita Dhar

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Artistic effects on my selfie: Arka Prabha Roy Chowdhury