The priest kissed the
lingam on the Vitasta bank. The ripples raced to wash away the
lipmarks. The bhel leaves he put on the phallic image were a
lamb's meal.
As the prodigal
thanked the lord for the nice green meal in the winter, its throat was
slit on Id.
For years spaces grew
between the priest and the slaughterer. They passed each other in
silence. Sunshine sliced marsh marigold. Blasts uprooted shivering
chinars. Shards rained over poplar avenues. Sessions in the woods left
saccharine in the mouths of wrinkled faces. The sofa stared at the
creaseless divan.
Phiran
was no more a tent of the Kangri. Scampering up the
Shankarachary hill ; strolling along the Vitasta and the boulevard was
no more a fun.
Lalla came out in the
street without a veil. Crusaders cried. Shame! They singed her with
acid near the baker's oven.
A shikara dissected
images of a lair in the inky Dal.
Red, orange and green
leaves, astride flotsam limbs, gushed out, as weary sluice gates gave
way.
Bloody mass tossed
against rows of house-boats, Spicy aromas mingled with reek of killing
machines. Daffodils saw themselves charred in the Dal.
"Leave
Kashmir" din reached priest’s doorstep. He couldn’t take one
more step. They came for him, led by his taught. He was pulled out of
the cot. They shot him. Blood gushed out of him, but not the vale.
Sheep clouds vanished. Inky dark ones thundered. Rain pounded roofs
and rocks.
The priest tumbled
along with knick-knacks; hit the caving floors and sank in adobe like
silence. Smell of gun-fire pierced the chill. Icy winds blew away the
shroud from the still-pink face.
Orphans on the green
watched the funeral procession going down the hill. Tender hearts
pounded in tiny breasts. Quiet flew the brook as the women wailed, men
stared at the pyre. ‘The earth warmed by chinar fire neither
cools nor shifts'.
There is no peace at
the end of the tunnel. Those who are scared in the heaven are also in
the hell.
The defender
One more sultry
Sunday slips away sans captain Bhat.
In between sipping
his beer and trips to the loo he told, with zest stories of going over
limits at nude heights, where snow gleamed once in a while. With glee
he narrated how goncha-clad natives greeted him Jhule Jhule,
how their cheeks glowed, as he entered smoky taverns to get high on
Chang.
On the lake side,
amidst pebbles, shone like white beads, marvelling at his stars
shining in grey depths, he saw his mistress’ face on his wife's.
Scared, he ran to his
post and fell on thorns, bleeding like a day-old cactus bloom.
The dump
Sun spews fire.
Surface winds sweep
the dust from foothills on to the green and grey wide roads and slim
lanes.
