High Noon at Sikri
Sandstone steps pulsate
minuscule under the gaze
of the Buland Darwaza.
Civilising scales tossed
and restored
in this half-dome theatre of history.
There is, still, a well putrefying
memories. Ice lolly vendors, haulers
of stories crowd the stairway
to victory. We dodge the wares,
a sprint to the shade.
Mercurial phantoms mingle,
haunt the marble-speckled gates.
Breeze tickles armpit stains
as beady foreheads trace
arches in the iwan. (Peacocks then)
pigeons now strut the dust.
Weary tourists crane
their necks at the syntax
of architecture. Was Jahanpanah
as hot under the collar?
Four bridges over a crusted pond
allude to the departed regality.
Salim Chisti’s tomb echoes
white. The nacre-studded mosaic,
the light-drilled jaalis offer no respite.
Exposed to history, I taste its cruelty,
its candour. Pilgrims don’t time travel,
they vain weathered.
A chameli lace flashes its fragrance
and I see Jodha, a dervish whirl.
She wafts to me on a carpet of scent
and whispers
Din-i-ilahi.
Migrations
Guests of King Lakho, the flamingos
come to Kutch every year. They fly
distances to breed. Streaking the sky
like the block on cotton, bleeding history.
The Maldhari herders from Rann
wear heritage on their shoulders,
imitating the priest king of Mohenjo Daro.
The patterns repeat the cosmos on cotton.
The Khatri rebels change in the big vats
of alizarin and indigo, fabricating memory.
When the travel bloggers and birders
come to the desert, they see parched skies,
thirsty marshes and Kala Dungar.
They miss the searing pans of history,
the wings that paint pink on mirages, dyes
that cast earth on everything they touch.
The Ranns of salt are white to the eyes,
for the outsiders only.
Diskit, 2022
A mannequined Bodhisattva perches
on the valley above the Shyok river,
witnessing an anachronistic audience
as they throng this 32 metre marvel
for selfies. Nearby, 63 lamas serve
the ancient order of Gelugpa,
those who made a home
at Diskit. Clinging to the mountainside
and the past, they preserve
through rituals and the prayers.
Three in the morning, the lamas
smile when you ask them
about their life. Like their gods, they
don masks and dance to the Cham.
I stared the paper-mache Mahakali
in the eye. Even the Rudra Shakyamuni
was not so fierce to me. I asked
the young lama, waiting in the prayer hall,
why the Gods at Diskit are veiled?
He said the guardian deities are covered
to not scare off the camera wielding visitors.
The gods need protection from misinterpretation.
That Tantra is a fine art not understood
by many. They whisper as they pray.
Men, you are not ready for the Truth,
that gods can be demons too.
Kinjal Sethia is a writer based in Pune. Her work has been published in nether Quarterly, Usawa Literary Review, EKL Review, Samyukta Fiction among other places. She is the Associate Editor for Fiction at The Bombay Literary Magazine (TBLM).