Pavagadh
If the skies are clear—
At dawn,
From the balcony of the bedroom,
Pavagadh could be seen.
In the skies, full of vermillion,
Like an ascetic meditating,
A dark shape emerges slowly.
The lore has it,
Millions of years ago,
There was a volcano that threw everything up.
Ages passed by,
The volcano cooled down,
Human settlements arose,
From the caves, men spread to the plains.
There were groups of people, towns formed,
A grandiloquent city called Champaner,
Its grandeur stretched till Delhi in the North,
To win Champaner, Emperor Humayun besieged it for months.
It is said,
At that time, Mehmood Begda was the king,
It is said,
In a sitting, he would eat two hundred bananas,
Eight whole fowls.
It is said,
The Emperor could do nothing and returned empty.
It is said,
That centuries passed by,
Champaner was erased, in its ruins, there,
Bigger and greater cities took birth,
And companies making thousands of cars,
Forced themselves into Pavagadh.
Thousands of cars started coming from its mouth,
They ran crazily on our national highways,
Men upturned the earth,
Started filling the bellies of those thousands of cars
These cars running crazily around,
As night falls, they reach different cities,
Different residences, destinations.
Cinema Halls in cities,
Show films on MohenjoDaro,
About cities that were built eons ago,
Before Lord Krishna, Lord Buddha, or Christ.
In small communities,
In even smaller dwellings,
Smaller families,
On rainy, monsoon nights,
They burn flickering lamps in living rooms,
They snuff out those lamps in the bedrooms.
The next day, early in the morning,
At dawn, from the balcony,
Pavagadh could be seen if it can be,
Or it may not be seen–
Pavagadh is there if the skies are clear.
Note: Pavagadh is a prehistoric mountain located around 55 Kms from Vadodara, Gujarat. At its base is the historical city of Champaner, a UNESCO World Heritage site, while the hill station of Pavagadh was built upon the volcanic cone itself.
Primitive Stones
Smooth milky round-shaped primitive stones
must have come a long way
on this smooth window frame of air-conditioned restaurant
Father said—
On the vast bank of Mahi river
we used to play with such stones.
I remember,
In the evening
electricity fails
we generate sparks with such flints
under the mango tree
and see in the eyes of now forgotten friends
On the first trip after marriage
In the beautiful garden of the remote Norbulingka monastery
I saw the similar stones
Inscribed in some unknown script
stacked upon each other
breathing, Om Manipadme Hum
Primitive man
In the dark of the caves
lit a fire with these stones
and stare in the eyes of wild animals
These stones are
more primitive
than
Primeval man or fire.
Poetry or Revolution
Poetry or revolution
Never remains incomplete
They vanish in the pages of history
To sprout and strengthen
future poems or inner outer revolutions
Yet to come after years, centuries or eras
