Homa

The smoke,
   A light grey,
               curls up from the flickering flames.
My eyes tear,
        sting, hurt.
To think it's an after effect of a few lighted logs.
The chanting oscillates in a strange pattern,
           between opposite sides of the fire.
Two pujaris chant, and fast, in Sanskrit.
                                      The sounds of which reach my ears,
 But the meaning of which does not reach my brain.
                     When those two pujaris end with a Swaha hay!
The other two pick up,
                  to form a strange sort of,
Shloka rap song.
                             And so it goes on and on.
My grandfather throwing half-fried sweets into the flames,
             My grandmother, adorned in purple, sitting faithfully beside.
The flames reflecting off her large-framed glasses.
                            Photographers at the side -
My dad. So formal in his blue shirt,
                                       weilding one camera.
While my bhaiyya, in a white kurta,
              wearing an orangey scarf, that makes all the difference,
holds the other camera.

And so,
        I sit here.
           My eyes stinging,
                My forehead sweaty,
                     But my heart growing,
As I watch the homa.