A New-old Story (5)

Mind isn’t generally its place,

And in itself, can never make

Heaven of hell; hell heaven.

Meaninglessness refined;  absurdity magnified,

Bedazzle, bamboozle

Yet stay nonsense.

The world becomes too much

With high narrator-relativism.

Let the “I” seep in

Through the rock bed of reason

Into the river-narration.

How would it not?

The story is of ghats,

And river, temples, lanes.

The story of Kasi

Can never form sans me.

Thus our dog-monkey,

Presently backgrounded,

Sulks ominously.

He, the sun, of the star-pantheon

Of living or dead deities

Worshipped in holy Kasi.

So our dog-monkey

Is found around the temple

And roams the ghats and galis-

My ghats and galis-

The places from my past,

I share with this celebrity,

This god, dog-monkey.

I’m surely no god

Yet god-like I create

A world and populate

The world with so much life

That blood, red and warm

That runs inside my veins

Gives colour, warmth; its life

To that which comes alive

In lines- the flesh and bones

That words and pauses fill.

A story gets its force, its life,

Power and colour, from mind

That creates.

Mind with its limitations

Sets things in combinations

By rules of its creation

Real, unreal, mixed

In varying proportions.

No, let’s not go that way.

The lane of truth lies there

And fiction lane too

Runs side by side some time

And merges then with truth.

Then what really is truth?

Who makes the final call?

Not me, nor you,

Then who?

And what is truth? Really.

Pilate-like, who wants to know,

When audience calls for action?

So now resume the story

Mind isn’t generally its place,

And in itself, can never make

Heaven of hell; hell heaven.

Meaninglessness refined;  absurdity magnified,

Bedazzle, bamboozle

Yet stay nonsense.

The world becomes too much

With high narrator-relativism.

Let the “I” seep in

Through the rock bed of reason

Into the river-narration.

How would it not?

The story is of ghats,

And river, temples, lanes.

The story of Kasi

Can never form sans me.

Thus our dog-monkey,

Presently backgrounded,

Sulks ominously.

He, the sun, of the star-pantheon

Of living or dead deities

Worshipped in holy Kasi.

So our dog-monkey

Is found around the temple

And roams the ghats and galis-

My ghats and galis-

The places from my past,

I share with this celebrity,

This god, dog-monkey.

I’m surely no god

Yet god-like I create

A world and populate

The world with so much life

That blood, red and warm

That runs inside my veins

Gives colour, warmth; its life

To that which comes alive

In lines- the flesh and bones

That words and pauses fill.

A story gets its force, its life,

Power and colour, from mind

That creates.

Mind with its limitations

Sets things in combinations

By rules of its creation

Real, unreal, mixed

In varying proportions.

No, let’s not go that way.

The lane of truth lies there

And fiction lane too

Runs side by side some time

And merges then with truth.

Then what really is truth?

Who makes the final call?

Not me, nor you,

Then who?

And what is truth? Really.

Pilate-like, who wants to know,

When audience calls for action?

Our dog-monkey – pinnacled,

Enjoys the orange full moon

That rises slowly, sliding

From sheets of darkness light

That  fills the eastern sky,

And trees silhouetted black.

The moon, orange, then cream,

It rises changing sheen

And colour till it’s seen,

Atavistically,

Serendipitously,

By bhajan chanters devout

Who look up open-mouthed

At a haloed sitting being

Atop the sacred sanctum

Of mighty monkey god.

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