Loving her in her six-yard pink floral silk sari

I cannot imagine
while I am lying
in my striped pajamas
beside her in the bed

she stays wrapped
in a six-yard silk
pink floral sari,
and keeps her pink choli on

with black bras and panties underneath.
And her old parents,
sitting side by side
peering at me

through a large
framed photo hanging on
her bed room wall
adorned with garlands of Marigold.

How dare I fondle
their daughter,
so innocent, so pure.
And mother Kali

an avatar of mother Durga
who listened to her prayers
days and night for years
for gaining a faithful husband

might suddenly jump out
of her stone statue by the table -
sitting on a blood thirsty
roaring ferocious lion

her face darker than the darkest night,
her sclera brighter than mid-day sun,
dressed in silver and gold
embroidered red blouse and a silken sari

with her pouting pink tongue
pierced with many silver spikes,
carrying in one hand a freshly
cut-off head of a young man

still dripping red with blood
and in her other hands
a three-pronged Shiva’s spear ,
coiled snakes and paraphernalia

of violent murderers and killers,
shouting out loud to me:
“Leave alone my sweet devotee
Or I will cut off your penis now,
and send you to rot in the hell."

Her parents, her six-yard pink floral silk sari,
her mother Kali, her ever-smoldering sticks
of incense of roses and tulsi agarbati
failing to mask the curry smell,
spreading from her kitchen everywhere

would turn me off like bog smell.
I cannot think of myself
holding her in my arms
and loving lying
next to her in bed.