She Waits in the Dust for the khepa.
She says
"Eat, before you fold your hands.
What good is prayer,
When hunger still stands?"
No codes.
No crowns.
No incense high.
Just earth on your cheek
and truth in your eye.
She takes you in
as you are.
Not what you wear,
not what you were.
And Bama
Ah, Bama the mad
ate her bhog
before it was offered.
Ate with fingers dirty,
mouth loud with laughter,
and still, she smiled
like a mother after.
Once, he peed
right there, by her side.
Not out of insult,
but with nothing to hide.
He said,
"She’s my Maa
She cleans my mess.
She knows my filth.
She loves me less?"
He slapped her once
angry, hungry, wild with grief.
"No food again, Maa?
Is this your relief?"
And what did she do?
She didn’t burn.
Didn’t curse.
Didn’t turn.
She wept.
Not because it hurt
but because he was starving.
Because his ache
was hers, unraveling.
The priests gasped.
The villagers froze.
The Goddess...
just held him close.
This is not the love of thrones.
Not the chant of clean hands.
This is love where madness grows
in blood, in spit, in no man’s land.
She bows to the bhakta
who spits his pride.
Who comes in rags,
but leaves her wide
open with his truth,
naked in his flame.
This love…
has no name.
No rules.
No shame.
Only Her,
and the One
who dares to claim.
- By Manansh Ahuja Shisya of Gurudev Shri Praveen Radhakrishnan