Father, Son, and Holy Spirit

by Nakul Grover





We caught the sunrise between our teeth,  

on a pious hill in New Delhi,  

walking up the cold marble temple stairs.  

Jasmines bounced in the jute basket.  

The dot on his forehead, small and red  

as a baby mango, throbbed like a thousand suns.  

I stared at Ganesh’s idol—glittering, inanimate 

half elephant of stone, half mystical superpower— 

admiring the artist who built god 

From stone and gold. Papa commanded:  

look into Ganesh’s eyes and let the holy rays 

seep through yours. Wish for a better future!  


One chance to ask for anything I wanted  

and I had no desire, no heartbeat. The priest 

slammed a coconut into two and sang in Sanskrit.  

Children waved from school buses, peanut sellers 

barged on the roads with their carts. We stepped  

down from the hill, staring back at sunrise.  

The priest’s baritone voice vibrated in my mind,  

as we entered the privacy of crowds, both pleased 

and alone, with Ganesh’s trunk embracing us. 





This poem first appeared in Rigorous Magazine.





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