In my ancestral farm there's a statue
Of Shiva radiating calm. As if
Out of some unbuilt centuries had come
The spirit of time, tall, invincible,
Yogic in granite strength yet intimate,
It stands, blue-throated and esoteric,
In weird dimnesses holding a crescent
As their occult charge. A ring of low hills
In awed serenity surrounds the place
And, when blows the south-westerly, it brings
Great rains. Sometimes, as the night gathers storm,
Infirm faith gets shaken; those thin furrows
Tremble, and the trees bend in fear of ire
Let loose by the elements of nature.
Sometimes a pilgrim train arrives in good
Haste, and the temple-town and the god-chant
Become louder in the thick ringing sky.
At other times is seen a plane breaking
The sound-barrier as though virginity
Ran faster than motherhood and gave birth
To Parthenon. The Blitzkrieg of Hitler
And the Rape of
And prone lie anaesthetised creature hearts.
He watched the come and go of each event,
Not indifferently but in grandeur
Of his stateliness, noble, straightforward
Upright, sage. What I saw dazzled my eyes,
A dream awake to such a certainty
That, at once on a canvas I would paint
The magic of its hues, the resplendence
Of its joy. I would build a whole new world,
And lay gardens in acres of greensome
Moods, upturned to the sun. His ardent will
Echoes in the mountain call; bright-ranging
In its look, a gold vastness is his soul
Hoisting the work of cosmic excellence.
RY Deshpande
31 May 2004