Mira Should Have Known Better

Rama, I gave my heart to you alone.

When love takes root, do you just cut it down,

 or, darling, do you let it grow?

Had I known how much pain it would cause—baby,

I would have gone around town with a drum, shouting, don’t fall in love.

 Rama, I gave you my whole heart.

Girls, don’t get burned eating hot kheer, i.e., don’t make friends with fools.

One moment he’s warm, the next, ice cold; one moment an enemy, then a friend.

 You alone.

To fall in love is craziness, but to break a heart is cruelty.

Carrying on through love’s upheavals? That takes a rare warrior.

 Destroyed.

You’re a courtyard that could hold up an elephant; I’m a crumbling wall of sand.

How can I resurrect it now—this love I’ve had in all my past lives?

 My heart.

Plant a mango tree and a babul in the very same spot.

One will make such sweet juice! The other, just thorns.

 It could flourish.

Like a spring flowing down from a hilltop—that’s love with a trifling man.

He starts out hastily, then reveals himself, trickling through the twists and turns.

Rama.

The monsoon months have come. The peacocks begin to speak.

Mira’s going to meet God’s people: a gust of wind’s carrying her away.