'Oh you're a Brahmin too!' she had exclaimed-
with an expansive hand, and a sherbet
syrupy sweet.
'Of course we shall accommodate your daughter'
'Why', I had asked then-
shame, in every goose bump.
'We are the same caste you see', she smiled-
showing me her God house, then.
Like dolls they lay, clothed, fed and content.
'Near your balcony, there is a Gulmohur tree'
I told her-
'Have you see it flower?'
She nodded her head, puzzled-
'Every morning, an old man sits there
Bhairavi, in his human voice.
My God and caste are there,
here, is too crowded.'
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