the dividing line
if it exists
is very thin
at jejuri
and every other stone
is god or his cousin
there is no crop
other than god
and god is harvested here
around the year
and round the clock
out of the bad earth
and the hard rock
that giant hunk of rock
the size of a bedroom
is khandoba’s wife turned to stone
the crack that runs right across
is the scar from his broadsword
he struck her down with
once in a fit of rage
scratch a rock
and a legend springs
all the way up to jejuri.a cold wind keeps whippingand slapping a corner of tarpaulin at your elbow.you look down to the roaring road.you search for the signs of daybreak in what little light spills out of bus.your own divided face in the pair of glasseson an oldman`s noseis all the countryside you get to…
when you ask him a questionhe exorciseby sprinkling dishwater in your faceand continues with abulations in the sinkand certain ceremonies connectedwith the washing of cups and saucers.
crash-helmeted outridersfaceless behind tinted visorscome thundering from one end of the roadand go roaring down the othershattering the petrified silence of the nightlike a delirium of rock-drillspreceded by a wailing cherry-topand followed by a faceless presidentin a deathly white Mercedescoming from the airport and going downtownraising a storm of protest in its wakefrom angry scraps…
said chaitanya.He popped a stonein his mouthand spat out gods
Least of all Maruti himselfMay be he likes a temple better this way.A mongrel bitch has found a placefor herself and her puppiesin the heart of the ruin.May be she likes a temple better this way.The bitch looks at you guardedlyPast a doorway cluttered with broken tiles.The pariah puppies tumble over her.May be they like…
There is nothing in it.Except the hundred years of silt.
