Letter to Goddess II

Dear, dear Goddess,

I return to write to you right at the eve of your visit to this frantic land, you call home. How do you? My last letter to you, last year, was one in which I wished you a happy vacation, but from the sight of it, I hardly believe you have one anymore. From the graphic mountainous range when you descend, do you not feel the immediate difference that awaits to engulf you in the name of celebration?

You call this home? Where banners garland your welcome in uncouth, distasteful arrangements? Where roads are packed with plastic happiness and loud lights of unmanageable debt? How much has changed since the first time for you, Goddess? I find it hilarious that the live effervescent sound of the dhaak is replaced by cheap recorded tracks out of movies, and people still insist that such grandeur is all for providing employment. Really Goddess, your devotees need a lesson or two in moderation.

You have been impressively kind to me for the longest time that I can remember. You are the face of strength that I sometimes wish to hand-hold. In fact, you are most intimately mine, more than ever. Yet, I cannot but feel immensely sad at the thought of your plight in the frenzied sea of faces. Well, if you can manage to see them past their camera-phones anyway. Smart, Goddess. Smart is what has happened to this age. We are so smart that we fail to catch the nod of disapproval you may hint at us. We are overjoyed with the power of the 'instant'. Why, even you took ten long days to demolish demons! How do we then dare to believe in the longevity of anything which is a product of the 'now'? It is foolish. It is extremely naive. And it is pathetically tragic. In spite of the legend of 'smart' this is what we are reduced to -- unthinking, insensitive blokes.

Or, like me, terribly impassioned to do something about this carnival of civil insanity, yet managing nothing but an escape. This time too. Goddess, as your arrival approaches, my departure nears. I go to the quaint hill stations to refill my system with some peace and comfort that the last two weeks have assaulted. I think of you. You, on a truck full of drunkards, headed by a lead of even more drunk dancers. It is sad. Your newspaper-ed back, unattended; your familial attribute overexposed and left unfelt to, in the hands of the 'seasonal art'; and your clay-clad costumed being -- one with the water, forgotten in ten days' time.

I, on the other hand, will come back to the vacant lots of post-celebration, full of love. What is this, but your kindness?

Should you feel out of place this vacation, feel at home in my heart,

K.