Fists of air clasped and held so that the moment does not ever escape me. Are these statues lining the streets really men? They have smooth limbs and clean chests and eyes with lashes that fan out onto the cheeks like little feathers, in impossibly fine brushstrokes. And crinkly hair and goldfoil crowns, are these men smiling cherubically at me as I walk past?

Twenty rows of identical cloned gods all waiting to be taken away.

Is it because you have created something that you must find a god to attribute it to? There is sweat going into gleaming metal, and there is toil and hard work in carved beds and bicycle parts, and yet these impossibly perfect figures must be hailed for something that mortal hands have created. Vishwakarma puja confounds me; if it wasn't for the kites I'd ignore it altogether. But no. Steel grey skies and beflowered workshops work in favour of tiny little diamonds darting around in the air.

Kites give me the queer pain described in the Anne books.


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I wrote this last Vishwakarma Puja, not without reason, but it still makes me cringe now. Things like this always do. It always hurts when time puts things in perspective so you might as well laugh.
:D