She

Her cinnamon skin,

Clothed in a kurti

Her rebellious hair

Sprouting from behind the hands

Of her awkward glasses

Her ineffable eyes - brown.

The elastic of her jeans

Fossilised into her skin

Traced by

Her fingers

Festooned with

Blue blotches and henna

She finds herself

Between the lines of a poem

Or

Tucked away in a paragraph

Of an oddly familiar book

She smells

Of fresh parchment and ink

She tastes

Spicy

Like mango pickle

Sweet

Like jaggery

Salty

Like sweat

She is

Like modern art

Startling and unfathomable

Intimidating for the finite eye

She is.