It’s like this: your sons and daughters, immune to their own beauty, ask me to bless their weapons before stepping into the arena. Or, maybe, it’s something else entirely: an archipelago of stories strung together along meridians invisible to me, current flowing electric in the interstices between each awkward, graceful island. All I know is what I saw: a young titan, hoisting a rusting world over- head while other young gods laughed and mocked; an olive-skinned Radha, emboldened by her gopis to go and fetch the sun, toss it back into the sky.
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