As the bus runs past the blue plastic roofed hut,
The image of tales once told by the old
Of dhoti-clad, bare-chested artisans
Moulding forms of holy myths divine
And faces of doe-eyed goddesses
Lingers in my mind’s eye.
Their dark sienna skin is beaded with
The monsoon rain,
Their long fingers cup scared earth,
Giving birth to the mother
In a land and time not their own.
This picture is from the Durga Puja celebrations in Pune around this time last year. There are Bengalis everywhere in the world, divided only by geography.