THE TEMPLE


    The road to the temple, dresses my bicycle red,

    the ground to the left painted with our badminton cries and fights;

    of which nothing’s left but a cemented space.

    A li’l hump on the road- a foot away from the gate,

    a reminder of a wind of whom I am a passerby now!

    The grey sculptures of the two guarding Goddesses scares me lighly even now.

    And then the temple which has no image of the balance.

    The balance in which once , muthassi asked me to sit

    ayy!; kind’a awkward it was; as people saw me do that.

    The ‘big-long’ round around the temple sticks to my memory,

    a secret with my pink li’l chappal and the black short grill

    the path after which, was where muthassan built the stone structures at noon,

    took me and held me around this history.

    The feel the Goddess’ idol inflicted in me of a marvel expression and a crystal voice;

    a feel or was it real?

    the place there where muthassi bowed and prayed everytime,

    I do the same even now, 'no' if you ask me for the 'religious' reason

    but yes, it’s my memory feeling the past,

    feeling the silver li’l glass in which muthassi fetched me water

    as muthassan drew it  from the well, beside which was those leaves

    whose stem spitted milk.

    Tasty and divine I felt it was; and hence always thirsty I was!

    lost are the silver glass, stones and my pink chappal

    lost is that special lamp with which I used to lit the diyas with muthassi;

    people who run religious and mock history, Huh! lost are them too,

    but numbering are them too who no more feels the beautiful history!










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