In the consecrated area of the house,
To ward off the spirits of bad fortune,
To appease the spirits of good fortune,
The priest sat chanting mantras esoteric,
Making mudras codified to prod the gods.
He knew the daskshina pocket was deep,
And so had elaborate mantras to chant,
Enough reason to sell Him even harder.
The crowd had an eye at their watches,
The ‘sincere’ priest is no hurry to stop,
Fervently hope I am in time for the 9:27,
My boss does scare the hell out of me.

Oblivious to the world around them,
Chattered the two clandestine lovers,
Glad at the opportunity to be around,
Ecstatic at the chance to be unrestrained.
The parents giving disapproving looks,
Pulled them apart to stem the chatter.

Then I spied God as the messenger boy,
Carrying silent love messages to and fro.
The pretense I see here is too stifling,
They believe they know better then Me,
They always are giving Me directions
As to how to love them, when to love,
And what quantity of love they require,
As if I am their favourite genie-at-call.
The love they ask for is adorned with
Infinite hunger for money and power.
They, who never felt the pristine love,
Like these blessed lucky ones here.