Their hands are clasped,
Smiling – for the gift of time
Has been granted to them.
She is dressed in a snow white sari,
He in an equally hued kurtha.
Into the temple they gingerly enter
And their daily obeisance
To The Lord offer.
They emerge – still holding hands,
Smiling, greeting, just very happy.
Ethereal, so very blissful.
They enter the street,
Filled with society's rot and decay,
Passing the street urchins and beggars,
Almost stepping into the sewer and effluence
That lies forgotten in the slummy streets.
The village drunk from his heap leers at her,
Admires her swaying and rolling hips,
Sucks his lips and spits out –
As if the decay is not enough.
The flies buzz and circle the rotting fruit
Thrown by the street vendors.
Millions of maggots rise and fall wavelike,
Focused in their endeavour to buzz and fly.
The couple's reflection in a puddle of sewer water,
Smiles back at them, purer than their garb,
Backdropped by the temple,
Untainted, by the filth and rot.
It seems that they are enveloped
By an invisible shield of spirituality.
They glide by – still holding hands
So very happy, heavenly,
Radiating hope...hope...hope...