Mahasivaratri

There is an image 

etched in my heart,

of an eight year old me

carrying a wicker moon 

basket full of bael patra 

and hibiscus flowers, 

accompanying my stout 

and feisty Amma and 

a very frail but 

kind-hearted baba,

while listening to 

the story of how 

Siva drank halahal 

and saved the world 

from a certain death 

and suffered the 

excruciating agony 

silently for the 

mankind, earning the 

name “Neelkanth”,

to the temple with 

an ochre coloured 

shikhar and a 

golden Kalash, 

and a big Peepal 

tree wrapped with 

red mouli of devotion

and a lingam where 

rich and poor, 

men and women 

stood in a queue silently

waiting for their turn 

praying to the God 

to drink the poison 

from their lives

yet again.