By Sanghamitra Das
My bridal trousseau is ready, woven with cobwebs stretched on a loom of mango branches .
The spring has shaken me from the shackles of hibernation. Lustral April shower sprinkled dust on me. I woke up inflamed, breaking into blooms of white, mauve, yellow, etched with macula of sienna, the threaded motifs of the eternal seamstress to adorn my virginity.
The feeble vela , my hair extensions, reach out to sip the moisture potions from the air cooling me from within. The strumming cord of the gentle breeze quavers in celebration. My lack of oration compensated with the fragrance of the ornate blossoms.
In my futile attempt to resist this perilous and stormy romance with the nature, the tree holds me firm in offering. I am an Orchid woman soon to be wedded with the eternal He man-- nature.