Every Indian girl’s dream,
As in those tapestries of white lace,
You have little skin-rungs, 
That help you escape from a brown fortress,
A caste of little people, who
Are taught that tan is just a curse at best,
An immortal dungeon of birth.
But then, just take a look, at the dark skin of Kali,
Embrace a near-Godiva stitch
Almost like Shryln Chopra’s stint,
In molten brown sugar,
Showing that brown – just like pure white –
Can turn tapestries of eye-candy
Into sultry caramel.