Call me a dimwit, but never in my life I could understand or relate to poetry (except Plath's works), until this year when Bhakti poems engulfed me. And it all began with reading 'Eating God', a collection of poems by mystic poets of India. Bhakti is a 'strange disease' and as Kabir wrote, "Only someone struck by it, knows the pain." As I read, I cried in pain and joy, could relate to the anger, got bewildered, laughed out loud (mostly at Tukaram's poems, "Look! I am a grocer by profession. You can't cheat me at a bargain."), and marvelled at the art that questioned social injustice ranging from caste discrimination (Narasinh Mehta) to untouchability during menstruation (Soyarabai). What is this Bhakti really? In her delightful introductory essay, Arundhati Subramaniam writes, "Everyone has known it. Many choose to forget, defer, deny or dilute it." How to find it? By looking within and opening up the box of treasure. Sometimes, it needs poetry. In short, 'Eating God' is absolutely delicious.