Of This Time
P C K Prem
Word is a sacred asset
on the crowded mall,
near the church ancient
of peanuts and grams roasted,
in warm winters,
as monkey on feet
extend frowning hands at visitors,
colliding with lusty glances
in passions cold,
when the white man refused,
to see a soul,
in bodies brown.
It was a non-existing wedge
between cultures,
of people denying man to live
in prayers with no wish,
to think of statues erected
on crowded crossings.
A hymn a crowd sings turns into posers,
many scorpions,
and temples surge with natives
thump noisy whispers,
and it is a patchwork
of moans, prayers and grimaces,
ironic oblique looks
while disciples of monkeys’ god
prowl around munching grams,
to enact a historic scene,
in a theatre of absurd gaieties.
Meanings transmitted make out
lethal phantoms,
for a few moments more men, women
and children close eyes,
and construct scenes,
of joyous gnomes
as if landing from the blue
on the spacious lawn,
before many vermilion painted
tall stony figures,
and form grisly rainbows
with multi-layered torsos,
spitting fire.
Aromatic and lightly sour bouquet,
spatter around as if
a whole beauty of earthly breast,
and the world
not imagined,
opens before the eyes
and the praying forms,
oblige smiles on the lips
that
listen to mantras and chants.
Tingles of bells incessantly charm
blissfully it drives silly pack,
to
a smoggy coma.
There the beauty of a woman
unlocks ecstasy,
to find a vacant grave
when a firm string prolongs,
to exhaust fortitude
of a hungry pit.
In saffron with patches snaky
observes beauties of curves,
and mumbles amorous words none hears
in
solemn shades of temples.
This pundit
nurses many love scenes
with the damsels,
and next moment
looks at the huge statue of god
and sighs, groans and yet sings
rhymes of glory,
with
watery mouth.
A mast of hymns bursts out,
the great laughter of liking for body
as gods look on a new prayer
composed for another,
shadowy daytime to dole out
gods bequest
after people pour whispers
at bathed feet,
the wily priest with dozens of religions
and sermons,
in extracts showers soft touches
on fair ladies,
with detached looks at others.
A legend of a blind king
crushes an iron sculpture
and black is born to warn an arc idol,
the golden awning, the granite floor
and the chandeliers with huge
brass bells,
where the naked feet
the covered head and the burning flames,
remind mortals,
of a bloodstained field
that
appear red.
This is all I view around
and forget the ancient man,
on
the death bed.
As I am engaged with a pundit
to strike a bargain,
philosophy assaults the head
with blows and it bleeds,
and I run away as wicked feelings fill
an empty brain.
Closed eyes put up images
of bloated bellies,
half smiling lips and truths in plenty
to
create illusions.
An idea emerges
to
fill up space in time.
Guilt speaks out without prompting
and
I feel crushed.
Fierce little words invade
and I analyze vainly.
A cauldron burns energies
of stirrings of gods,
while searing heat burns and re-burns,
as the body refuses to agree
where
tragedy occurs.
Still I derive pleasure
from the closed eyes.
Of hindsight, a man is just confused
hungry
and thirsty.
Suffocates and yet feels relaxed
at
another time.
Lips murmur a secret prayer
as eyes observe,
and
eat up beauty around.
Awful experience wanders inside
with
witches gory.
I wonder what I do
in the abode of god
crying
for identity.
Muttering hymns in delight
of fervent fable,
I cry why I close eyes.
Of ancient sin, I try to materialize
a logogriph to baffle,
as I revisit Mahabharata
and get relieved,
when I see Bhisma
that sin is not new,
and
penance is primordial.
I am probably a newly born saint
of
an old age in times new.
It is a classic tale of lie
and pretence in a warrior in fears
survives in an era of deception.
Of temples filled with crowds
ungodly,
sponsored by the state mostly
to capture booths and ballots,
in an age of dons in religions
and
cons in politics.
And I watch
the priest standing alone
singing
love songs of yore.
I laugh with the song
and walk out in disgust,
to weave another story
of sins in the shrines of gods.
___
P C K Prem (P C Katoch of
Garh-Malkher, Palampur, Himachal, a former Academician,
Civil Servant and Member PSC HP, Shimla), an author of
more than sixty books (English and Hindi) is a Poet,
Novelist, Short Story Writer and a Critic in English and
Hindi from Himachal, India.