Still an unfinished Poem


(Not finished as yet, and Notes have to be provided…)

I see only one foot of the mother.
The other a pot tied to
A bronze pot tied to
Hundreds of feet below, below
Is below even the Pabbar.


The king of Sirmaur once
Called his slaves to carry the Mother
To Sirmaur, but failed
To touch her feet and seek her blessings.


* * *


Once in the month of Shraavan,
The pot cried out to his brethren
To the depths of the enraged Pabbar.
When Maya was passing by
The pot echoed out from its belly: Om
To write with the flood
Clearing the forests through the Chaanshil Valley.
The water cried – Om
But Ma said –
“You be my slave till the eternal flood
Washes me and you and I
Create another world.
Om me the beginning
Om me the end
Om the eternity
Om me.


* * *


For seven days and seven nights
The pot cried out –
Take me to Chaanshil O brother
To the bansheeras
Whence they told me the tale
For seven days and seven nights
Of the age when Ma
Came pregnant from Kashmir and rested
In Viraat fed by a Sangam of
Vish Khalti – Bishkulti,
Ranvti and Pabbar
For delivery and made
Viraat her abode atop Sunpuri –
The gold filled caverns
Even to the paanch Pandavas
Who built her abode
On the Ardhnaarishwar – Sunpuri Tilla


* * *


My grand great grandfather
Once after a vision called out –
“Come brethren to Chaanshil ho!
There, the swan
A snow white swan ho!
Flying wings on wings.
With its flock
Fell and lost her flock ho!
Come brethren to Chaanshil
To see the swan ho!”
The swan told the herdsmen –
“I am the chariot of Brahma.
If you leave me, I’ll tell you
The tale of Brahma.
He was Time
– Samay who was
Born before Brahma
Before Brahma could weave
The illusion.
In the Krita age
– Samay played the nimesha
– Samay played the midwife
To Om to abort
The Trimurti
Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva
From the womb
Of the Om.


Brahma weaves the illusion thence.
Brahma on me sleeps thence.
Through the Krita
Through Treta and Dwapara.
Brahma sleeps through Kaliyuga.
Whence Kali called
The land of Bharata his age,
I escaped
As Brahma sleeps and weaves
His illusion.”


My grand great grandfather said –
“Come brethren to village ho!
Brahma sleeps ho!
The swan escaped ho!
It swells in pride and freedom ho!
But I say it is an illusion of Brahma ho, ho!
Catch the swan.
We will roast it
We will toast it.
It too is an illusion.
A dream of Brahma ho, ho, ho!
Come brethren to the village ho!


* * *


On Chaanshil
The bansheeras went in circles
When in the month of Pausa
On snow clad mountains tops
The fairies come down
To dance with the bansheeras.
The bansheeras danced in circles,
The fairies sang the ballads
Of ages old
Of Hatkoti – the old Viraat,
Of Kuppad and the Giri Ganga,
Of Pandavas and the king Viraat.


The bronze pot with his brethren
Tethered to a pine
Swelled with gold.
The bronze pot with his brethren
Heard them sing and saw them dance.
Left foot they went forth
Right they bend.
Holding their hands they went in circles.
The first held the second
The first held the third
The third held the first
The third held the fifth.
Left foot forth
Right foot they bend.
They bend their backs
They bend their knees
They kick the air
And the fairies sing.


And in the month of Shraavan
For seven days and seven nights
The pot cried out –
“Take me to Chaanshil brethren
To the bansheeras
Through the shersha re baag
Where Kunti and Gandhari
Fought over a few leaves of mustard.
Where Bhima wrongly punished
The Kujin shrub.
O! Take me to Chaanshil
Through the shersha re baag
Where the Shesh Naag on his sheesh
Still fetches water in a lota
For the paanch Pandavas
Before they leave for the unknown skies
Clad in white and formed as goats.


* * *


On the day of Sakranti
Before the day of Bishu
When my grand great grandfather
Had gone to pay his salutations
To the Kyaanlu devta,
He met his son.
He met his dead son
On his way back.
The dead son told his father –
“Father you cry and not let me eat.
In the land of Jama
When the jamadootas serve me food
Your tears fill my gravy, which I cannot eat.
Father, I am hungry,
I haven’t eaten
Since I died.
See these puris
Look at this daal
In this gold platter.
Soaked in your tears, which I cannot eat.
Take this with you and cry for me no more.
Don’t live so filthy.
You come on Sakranti,
To the abode of Kyaanlu,
There, Brahma sleeps,
Brahma weaves his illusion.
There, Banaad rules his illusion
And Desh Maholia ministers his illusion.
And Jama picks his dead illusions.
And Samay alludes them all.


I am a dead illusion
Woken, after a nimesha of Kyaanlu
I am a dream of the dawn
Half-dead and half-drowning
In your tears.”


* * *


Laankra looks on intently
Over the mound of clay, by, which
Bhima painted his hearth,
Once appeasing his appetite
In Viraat’s kitchen.
Laankra looks on intently,
Nakula and Sahadeva building
Tempe – the ghortus
While they grazed
The cattle of the potter – Gogi
In the harvested kiars.


* * *


At night when Kyaanlu sleeps
Banaad sleeps and Desh Maholia sleeps
Shedkulia creeps, through the darkness,
Guarding the darkness from the nishachars.


“Murder” – Once they cried.
“Throw him in the river bed,
And no one will suspect,
For we are the men of respect.”
But Shedkulia looked on and whistled –
“Don’t throw him yet.
Don’t throw him yet.”
And Kyaanlu’s illusion was guarded.


* * *


In the month of Magha
We invoke not the deities.
They in their transparent bodies
Fly through the air
To Swarga – the kingdom of Indra,
To fight in games and ordeal.
While we live in mourning
On the unguarded earth.
In Swarga, the deities fight
Amongst themselves.
Many and many strange celestial games
And win trophies
Like the flail, a pitcher of water,
Two or three or four cubes of ice.

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