Aghora

By Jivika Vikamshi

She arrived barefoot-

not with light,

but with the scent of smouldered illusion

trapped in her skin.

Ash still clung to her tongue

from the truths she fed

to those who begged for silence.

She did not knock.

She did not ask.

She crossed the threshold

like vaitarani-

the river between self and selflessness.

She sat where others had swept shame

beneath stitched smiles

and honeyed scriptures.

Around her,

mirrors blistered.

Names unstitched.

Ego,

once proud as Indra,

lay nude in her lap

like a beheaded offering.

They called her terrifying.

But that was before

they heard her laugh

inside the marrow.

This was not grace.

This was Shiv

drinking poison under the moon.

This was Kaāl

spelled backwards

and whispered forward.

And when it was over,

there was no “before.”

Only:

The pause before the mantra.

The breath

that dared not lie.

Aghorāya Namah

(To the one who dared let the first illusion burn)

By Jivika Vikamshi