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
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…
It’s where a hoofstrucklike a thunderboltwhen Khandobawith the bride sidesaddle behind him on the bluehorsejumped across the valleyand the threewent on from there like onesparkfleeing from flint.To a home that waitedon the other side of the hill like a haystack.
His name is Yeshwant Raoand he’s one of the best.look him upwhen you are in Jejuri next.Of course he’s only a second class godand his place is just outside the main temple.Outside even of the outer wall.As if he belongedamong the tradesmen and the lepers.I’ve known godsprettier facedor straighter laced.Gods who soak you for your…
Yesthats what it is.
sand blasted shouldersbladed with shaledemonshillscactus thrustup through ribs of rockhillsdemonskneequartzlime stone loinsdemonshillscactus fangin sky meathillsdemonsvertebratedwith rock cut stepsdemonshillssun strokedthighs of sand stonehillsdemonspelvic granitefallen archwaysdemons.
yesterdaywith a piece of chalkon the back of the twenty foottortoisesmudges under the bare feetand gets fainter all the time asthe children run.
