Bejewelled, glorious, soulful India.
Heart of my heart.
Soul of my soul.
I hear your cry, your prayers, your calls.
No time for cymbals or sandalwood.
Where is the rose water?
Why no pindas, offerings to the gods?
Where is the priest?
Why is there no puja, no ritual, no garland?
The kaws of the crows.
The trees must come down.
There is no more wood to burn.
My heart aches for you India.
Beleaguered. Bereaved. Bewildered India.
By Carla Simmons.