I grew between two shrines,
one draped in tulsi leaves,
the other crowned with candles.

Krishna’s flute and church bells
played in the same morning air.
 
Holy water and Ganga jal
touched my forehead alike,
cool drops of faith,
different names, same calm.

Bible and Bhagwat Geeta sat on my shelf
like two storytellers
telling me truths in different tongues.

Even fear had two faces —
Satan in shadows, Kali Purush in storms —
both made me tremble,
yet pushed me closer to light.

Perhaps I was never confused,
just cradled by two rivers
that met in me,
flowing toward the same sea.