It took me a kneel-down
to know that a garlanded photo frame
can give more joy than
the god tucked therein,
that the damp grey dregs
of burnt incense
are laden with a coy
catechism of slow fire,
that a deity can easily
be coaxed into submission
or roped in by the silence
slithering in prayer
and half-whispers clung
to throatspread.
It took me a supine surrender
to see that a copper bell
fastened to a roof beam can
resonate reveries much before
finger touches clapper
or eyelid kisses sclera,
that the body rejoices
in the quiet which swirls
in the closed-room dusk of
heat-swollen afternoons, when
the primal yearning of flesh
makes the bones quiver
with the fear of vehement
sinning in the very midst
of saints, ever watchful
in their still-life serenity.
Sarabjeet Garcha published his first book of poems, The Half-Moon Halo, in 2004. He lives in Delhi, India, and works as an editorial manager for an international publisher of science, technology, and medical books. He also writes in Hindi; his book of Hindi verse and a Hindi translation of selected poems of the Marathi poet Hemant Divate will be published in 2011.
| The shrine in
this poem is a gurdwara in a sprawling, riverside building, now
deserted, in Nasik, Maharashtra, that will soon either crumble on its
own or be razed to the ground to make room for a new one. I spent my
childhood in this building, originally meant to be a rest house for
pilgrims but later home to many families who rented rooms in it and
spent decades instead of days there. The gurdwara would usually remain
locked, but whenever I found it open I’d sneak into it and spend
hours on end there, sometimes sitting cross-legged on the dhurrie spread out over the floor,
sometimes moving about, very, very slowly, to touch and feel the
various objects that supposedly make the space within four walls holy:
a platter with castaway matchsticks and dregs of incense, a lamp with a
burnt wick still exuding the odour of clarified butter, the scriptures
sleeping cosily in the softness of silk cushions, a flywhisk snuggling
in the groove between the thick book and padded cloth. When I visualize
that old building, the shrine is the first place that livens up my
memory. Also, a bell is a most unusual thing to find in a Sikh shrine.
Perhaps this has one because it belongs to the Nirmal sect, the
followers of which are Sikhs heavily influenced by Hinduism, especially
Brahmanism and the Vedantic philosophy. |
