
On Thy fingertips revolve hundreds, nay, millions of universes
How is it justified if you make me, this poor child
Also revolve on the same fingertips of Thine.

On Thy fingertips revolve hundreds, nay, millions of universes
How is it justified if you make me, this poor child
Also revolve on the same fingertips of Thine.

“May your far-reaching eyes—which are only slightly open like a blue lotus just beginning to bloom—bathe even a worthless, far-removed one like me in your grace.
Just as the cooling rays of the moon fall equally on the mansion and the wilderness, it will incur you no loss, O Shive, but this person will indeed become blessed.” —Soundarya Lahari, 57