A rural priest rolls and throws out the wedding mantras. The ritualistic ululation and the music of a toot and drum warm the monsoon up. The bridal garland like a noose awaits a bride’s neck. She bows her head in rural Indian coyness. Our groom learns to forget all beside the glitz of dowry gold. A burning wick yields to the darkness beyond the nuptial rhythms. The froth of cheated love runs down Miss Hema’s chin. She is stranded on the bluish eternity, along with the pressed love in her womb. An opened phial lies on the floor of a hut, showing its void up. *This is one of the four poems selected and printed in Rathalla Review ( 2014 Annual Issue)