Y A T R A Poem by Bipin Patsani

(a routine ritual)

Priests and Power
have ever been symbiotic partners
sharing everything they hold dear.
In their concerted efforts
painted with great zeal
and projected as God's will
moves the cart of culture,
while to their whims
like docile bullocks or horses
people opt to be yoked together.

Fear of the divine displeasure and curse
make people choose to be
a part of the flow in its course.
Delighted to be known as devotees
made only to bow down
before the self-styled direct envoys
of God and the crown
with the illusion of being pardoned
of all their misdeeds, all their sins,
people don't mind
even when they are ignored and set aside.

What stands apart prominent
is the grand exhibition of priesthood
and power,
a religious head waving around
the rod of order.

II

Proud of envisioning the entire universe
in the poetic image of your eyes,
now I see a different picture
as you appear with those only
who so cleverly used you ever
to establish their supremacy
and denied any other to come near.

The sea of humanity seen nowhere
makes any celebration look incomplete
what be the propagation and décor,
whatsoever adornments be there in sight
presented to wave the wand of authority.

I realise now what I really love in you.
What makes you so compelling, O Lord,
is the perception of holding the whole
and being with the people
makes you more and more lovable
like Tathagat's all embracing umbrella,
so relaxing, so soothing and adorable.
Just to be happy with you, we forget
all your inactions, we forget your silence
at times of turmoil and invasions,
your ‘Sudarshan' proving to be
simply a symbolic presentation
of the 'Buddhist Kaal Chakra',
the Great Wheel of Time,
not as some devotees imagine it to be
a weapon made to kill
when they invoke the divine will
looking at it with amusing expectations.
So, we hide you from evil eyes
when we smell of some threat,
lest some infidels should contaminate
the periphery of your skies.

Those which start and pause
as parts of the cosmic cause
are beyond the control of any faith
and not conditioned by rites, rituals,
invocations and its claws.

III

Have you not given up
all those childish pranks,
the game of hide and seek
you were so fond of?
The same game continues perhaps.
Where had you been all these years?
Three thousand years or so
is a pretty long time.
A waste of time it was.
Why did you reach the shore so late?
Whose exit was awaited before coming?

The trunk left unburned, abandoned,
the tired torso of Krishna laid like a log,
obstinate, sombre on shore, was immersed
probably in the shallow waters of Dwarka,
as they say, to find its own course,
the divine log drifted into the deep sea
and set sail searching for an address
bidding adieu to the Arabian Sands.

I wonder what would have happened
as you sailed along leaving behind
many a nautical mile year after year,
passing strange seas,
dealing with rough waters, impeding weathers,
hurricanes throwing you beating your chest,
slipping out sometimes
from the greedy glance of pirates
and fighting sea monsters.

Didn't your old pastime take you to some lone island
where you might have been held captive
by some fan in flame like Odysseus being held for years
by the sea nymph Calypso on his return journey?
Was she caring, was she possessive like Radha,
who won't like to share you with others?

The African Sun might not have disturbed you.
Had you gone a little further
you could have seen Cleopatra on Egyptian Sands,
for whom fell Caesar, Antony, Octavius and many more.
You could even have been the most suitable boy
among the suitors of Penelope
when Odysseus was away
and would have been of help, if gone that far
crossing the Atlantic and the West Coast
entering into the Mediterranean.

What might be your experiences in the ocean,
the cold corridor of the Atlantic, the Siberian Sea,
pleasantries of the Pacific or back in the Indian Ocean,
the amazing world of waves and beliefs,
that you reached us at last
when all the Sramans left for the Himalayas,
is a great relief.

To add to our joy it feels wonderful to know
that nothing could harm you
in three thousand years of life in salt and sea.

IV

Raw in form though, you were worshiped in the wild
by a tribal chief, some say, and that
you were stolen deceitfully to be brought here.

Some say, you are Sakya Muni,
you are Sangham, you are Santham,
all Trinity put together, Light, Darkness and Dawn,
the light of knowledge,
the all absorbing creative darkness of the womb
and the spiritual dawn of enlightenment and wisdom.
Even tantric cult is linked to you, some others say.

As for the Vaishnavites you are KRISHNA,
the son of the soil, a native origin of wonders
in its wild abundance, playful, brave, valiant,
adept in music, something like the Roman God Silvanus
who too was said to be looking after woods and husbandry.
O Master of all arts, the passionate lover,
sophisticated and diplomatic even in your smile,
wiser ever like a supreme sage,
the black God of the black to be installed thus
for wider acceptance with intense longing and devotion.

Krishna is the wine of love divine.
Some see their lovers as Krishna,
Some see Krishna as their lover
and they love to be lost in his love,
choosing their emotional involvements
and their own inevitable ends.

As love and bonding beyond boundaries gets recognition,
such intense passion of perennial source
becomes our binding force
from the poetry of which myths and marvels emerge.

V

Whatsoever the truth, all things put together
make you unique and universal,
Oh dear Black God of rare wood!
Oh God of the wild woods!
How imploringly we look at you and feel secure
like cows feeling comfortable with their master.
The sublime sense of your presence everywhere
makes everything look beautiful, sacred and sweet.
The Grand Road, the smell and the banner
that flutters on the Blue Disk above the temple,
everything seems to be Lord Jagannath.

The wonders of the hemispheres of your eyes
and their ever widening horizon so enticing
like the ocean, so serene that all those who come to you
find in your eyes themselves and their rhythm,
while flowers offered to the Gods slip out to sales
to be sold and offered again and again.

(On the occasion of The Car Festival of Lord Jagannath at Puri in Odisha, India during the covid19 pandemic lockdown.)

Copyright: Bipin Patsani