first-person self-portrait with Ganesh razberrychaos She leans against air chewing her writer's callous and debating whether or not she has sinned. She is an ensemble in the full length mirror; lithe body draped in orange and maroon. The fabrics don't quite breathe. Imports. She imagines the foreign hands that made them; printed them with Ohm and Ganesh and samarkan script, Translated: 'the jewel is in the lotus'. She doesn't wear crosses. Daylight illuminates her skirt and long legs defiantly grip the floor with her muddy feet. Elephants trample obstacles. Carpet be damned. She lied to two preachers yesterday, can't decide if it should concern her that she doesn't care. She undrapes herself and two fingers find themselves beneath her bubble underwear. Two stout missionaries poised, always at the ready. Just in case. She has a hair trigger. She decides if she didn't know they were preachers at the time it's not a sin. Stare discarded, eyes cast towards the carpet, to the mud she's trampled in. A cardholding member of the Mud Caste. She leaves to wash her feet in rainwater, and then to find the vodka. Or maybe to wash her feet in vodka. She thinks the next sin the one she's been planning won't be as easily decided.