There you are.

At the end of a coaly loco journey,

An upturned trident of an obscene century.

Hem of luminous morning sun-Arunachal.

Like a sweet young thing spilled on

A dome of tortuous phallus.

Whose after rape rags are there

Strewn among grasses that once were

Littered with night-blooms of

The Gol-Mohar!

It still stands. Still shows her

Burning pains in loud protestations

Of thousand bloomings.Paints the eastern sky

Red in wet July.

The temple still stands

On the buttock of the hill.

Down under runs the stream.

Dawn! Brings the tin-can soldiers from

The nearest base, praying for yet

Another day in the arms of lust,

Stealthily.

On tiptoe came Devodasis, streetwalkers

Spell bound at the environ of her own body

Reeking sleepless nights and ideated

Sensations

Who can cease nudging you, all

Serpentine Medusa? Have not we seen

The world tumbling at the feet of yours

Body love?

Give everybody

Everyday as you have,

To this rustic too,

A taste of here and

Earn benediction of posterity, Arunachal.

(Arunachal-name of a hill near the small railway station of Mashimpur, Silchar.There is a Kali temple-centuries old. Devotees flock there, Devdasis too. Its nocturnal life only borders on devotion to deity and wallows in elemental gratification of the Devotees and Devdasis, in unison. Visitors frequent the temple enlivened with abundant supply of liquor from the adjacent army cantonment. Tempestuous nocturnal life fills the air.)