Nelumbo nucifera the colour of Panthera tigris
The faded henna
On the young bride's hands
On the old man's beard
Smells the same
The holy river
Once ablaze with diyas
Now bloated with bodies
Winds on unassumingly
Grief the colour
Of embers on the pyre
Of the fading bruise
Of the very last sunset
Because saffron is
Not an ideology but
A spice that grows in Kashmir
So potent you can taste the
Single strand
In an oversized vessel
Of food
Because we take back what we love
And lotuses aren't orange anyway
Simone Dinshaw is a writer and editor based in Bombay. She studied literature at Middlebury College. Her interests include baking, diving, and disordering words to craft meaning.