Saraswati Puja

1.

On the train we knew neither when we would arrive nor the name of any station along the fog-laden way.

The taxi driver lied about our hotel being full, stopping in a dark alley. I insisted we drive on, but the way was blocked by the Saraswati Puja.

A street full of men, stripped to the waist, dancing like houses on fire, heading down the river.

One took my hand and pulled me to him, but we pressed on through the rickshaw-mounted speakers, bass line of the strobe-sworn mantra thumping.

Our hotel clerk claimed it really was full so the taxi driver found us another.

You leaned out the window of the room, snapping photographs of the puja-rave.

I huddled on the bed, the racket of the train on the tracks still hiving in my ear.