Dr Roopali’s dwells on a fierce, radiant woman who owned her desires, music, and dreams—now a fleeting reflection lost in the quiet dust of twilight, for Different Truths.
The one who was unafraid to speak her mind
a woman who laughed unabashedly and
the one that men wanted but were afraid of.
For her, only the best would do.
She was not afraid to look in mirrors
where her eyes could see only beauty
her smooth skin aglow in the reflection of the lamp.
She was once bright-eyed, and she saw
through cunning and deceit
like looking through sheer glass.
She was the one who walked in the moonlit night alone,
and sometimes when there were no stars and
the moon hid behind rain-soaked clouds.
Yes, that young woman whose fingers created magic
on the sitar strings,
pulling out music from some faraway galaxy.
Those fingers, which slipped the fragrant Ilish fish
into bubbling hot mustard oil.
Where is she hiding this girl who poured over
The Continent of Circe
looked eager-eyed at the peacock dancing on top of
the jagged rock, far away from the closeted
lecture halls and clumsy classmates.
Sometimes, I see her in the flitting evening shadows and
call out to her, but lose her in the twilight and
the dust kicked up by herds of cows.
They call it godhuli.
The other day, I looked at a passing mirror
in a glittering banquet hall where red chandeliers
hung from gilded ceilings, and thought
I caught a glimpse of her.
Picture design by Anumita Roy





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