Is a summer
Not of heat and dust,
Ruffle and high temperature,
Heat soaring up,
The loo blowing it hard,
Intensive heat falling,
No relief from
But the summer as siesta
One of bodily love,
Attraction and repulsion,
Love and hate,
Electro-magnetic sensation,
The fire of lust and greed
Burning within
And the thirst unquenchable.
The outward summer meaning nothing
To the lovers
Feeling the summer of the body,
In heat and dust and ruffle,
Sweating and caressing
At noontime,
Made for each other.
Kamala Das, in love,
It happens,
Happens so,
Physical and bodily love
Wanting it more,
Seating and loving
And yours is a tale like that
Into the steps of Vatsyayana, Freud and Rajneesh,
Lawrence, Plath and Wright
And what more to say to?
A spoilt girl-child were you
Who kept blaming the husband
Rather than yourself,
You love-mad Radha,
Love-mad Mira,
Spiritually sick
But physically demanding,
Going after the erotic,
Making the graphics.
Wearing a rudraksha
Posed you as a sadhvi,
In Indian adhu
With a ladki or…,
Wearing a tulsimala
Posed you as a Vaishnavite,
But were not, Kamala,
Meditate you not,
A yogi not, nor a yogan,
But a bhogi
Were you in your philosophy of life,
Delighting and deriving from
The sculptures
And stone carvings
Of Konark, Ajanta-Ellora and Khajuraho;
Reading with zest
The sambhoga to samadhi theory.

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