Neelima walked, walked up the pakhdandi
A pitcher on her head, she walked steady.
Neelima of the eyes so blue
Walked from the stream, where women gossiped.
Their whispers walked beside her.

There was again that talk of blood.
Red blood, blue blood, yellow blood,
Reflections of her blood
As it gazed out off her eyes.

She placed the pitcher on the stand.
She poured the water out.
She washed her eyes the whole nightlong.

A hundred maybe pitchers later
Her eyes had changed to red.
Red cheeks, red nose, red lips
Red reflections of the dawn
As it came now over the hill.

She walked now to the stream again,
Past all the many fields
Yellow mustard, yellow wheat, yellow lemon.
Yellow reflections on the pitcher
As the sun gleamed on the brass.

Neelima walked then to the stream again.
The day walked by her side.
Her eyes, her eyes they cradled night.
For she had lined them both with kohl.
Made in the darkest hour of night.

She walked, walked with a steady gait
to where the women stood to talk.
Neelima turned her face to them.
Look Neelima of the eyes so blue,
They said, has changed her eyes to black.
They giggled ever more.

Blue blood, blue eyes, blue sky.
Blue tears suspended in her eyes.
Blue reflections in the water.
As she bent to fill the pitcher.

Neelima sensed their eyes on her.
She heard their drifting laughter.
She could not see their eyes were green.
Green hills, green trees, green grass.
Green reflections of their envious eyes.
As they longed to own her lovely face.
Neelima saw this not at all.

She saw no colour infact.
Her eyes, her eyes knew only black.
Black morn, black noon, black night.
Black reflections in the mirror
As she gazed blind into the river.