Devi loves a drink. She loves to quaff a pint or two before she sits astride her roaring mate.
No one knows intoxication like she does. Only those who have knocked at death's door and danced in the graveyard of their desires, will glimpse in the mirror of their mind the slow reddening of their eyes as if they had swallowed the juice of a thousand sunsets or been whisked up a peepal tree and kissed by a yakshini.
She who rides the wind and has etched the secrets of the universe on every leaf with her breath, does not like to be cradled in a swan or hold a book in one of her arms.
O yes, Devi loves a drink. How ill-placed she would feel with our middle-class mores if we invited her to a party and the waiter carrying glasses of whiskey sailed past her to ask the gentleman standing by her side, 'Sir, would you like a drink?'
