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Gupta It is humid. conifer shadows crawl across the water with the sun. A slight breeze guides the clouds further west. Rose pink hues embellish the river’s golden quest to the sea. But this year will be different. The rains will not come. The river will inhabit this cup for another season, absorbing whispers from women who rush to its bank, each dawn, to cleanse, and rid themselves of last night’s revelations. “Sara is pregnant - again” “This time, I pray it is a boy” “Meena’s father refused Deepak’s proposal” “But a man of his station had no right to ask” “Gagaja asked the bank for another loan” “To gamble?” “Most obviously, but I heard he has not paid the last.” A click of the tongue abruptly halts hurried murmurs as the subjects of conversation appear. By dusk, the river is consumed with questions. The men arrive; connected, but unconscious spirits. Unwittingly they reply, wading to the deep end, bronze flames of light brandish toned muscles, wordlessly meeting each others’ eyes. Greetings are shared, saffron reeds nod in unison, Deepak blushes, as the elders chuckle, a fight breaks out. “Gagaja is angry, he did not get the loan.” this, from the water, to the ether. Inspired by Phil Greenwood’s “Dusk”
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Never pray to the Gods who answers after dark.
The King approached him, and said: “For the last time, I pray you to answer my questions, wise man.” “You have already been answered!” said the hermit,
Heart! We will forget him! You and I - tonight! You may forget the warmth he gave - I will forget the light! When you have done, pray tell me That I may straight begin! Haste! lest while you're lagging I remember him!
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It’s never easy to stand when the storm hits. And that’s exactly the point. By sending the wind, He brings us to our knees: the perfect position to pray.
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