Kangra Valley Poem by KATOCH P C K PREM

Kangra Valley
(Himachal, India)

Hills dusty and naked, rocks look awesome
deodars and pines spray hot breeze,
a little town squirms in pain, recalls events of yester.

I go back and observe and now a man hurts it greatly
Kangra valley looks not green, not majestic,
but a jungle of buildings strewn with little-large structures
along the road, and beyond the hills,
Dhauldhar range looks as if lamenting,
or crying for the ancient grandeur.
I revisit past and find the valley denuded
with statues in motion emoting smoke and dirt
dusty, yellow and brown air stifles and chokes the heart.

The temple and the church uncared look tidy
only a ritual is performed
relations for public eye, pioneers of future apathy,
awful to digest that God lived long ago.

2
Gardens bathed in tomblike hush
awaiting freedom in stinking fetid air and time.

New structures shape figures with painted faces
scaring passersby that stalk the walls with lean legs
and wounded hearts with injuries unseen.
No escape out of clouting love with concrete,
it kills even stones and mountains,
for here lives no tongue to speak out.

3
Air and space tainted look murkily dim
strangulate as dust shadows bodies in a grave.

Valley stinks, it is grimy with white soot
and cuts off life line as rains fume and grieve
where clouds cry and instill fears
of fiery earthquake,
as men strides look blunted.
A return to poignant days tiny tots long for,
as mom cooks in earthen stove with wet wood.

4
Many in trepidation, shaky and weeping long before
I found living,
in mosques, running with kids and women
to save wasted lives and ruined honour,
as iron hoofs treaded with terrifying thuds.
Jokes of destiny sullied as acrimony conquered,
visualized bricks burnt up with orphans,
raped women with tearful pleas straggled
as visits to temples, Christ and Mecca seemed
a waste of time,
at that point of history.

That no longer teaches to live together,
life approach raped and orphaned
in ashramas of saints and babas in sexy attires
as distorted morals of nuclear age continue to thrive,
so the life goes on.

5
Free run to a country wounded in rocky tunnels
praying sighs, bombs and blasts,
drift a man away from culture that kills.
Perfection in living is stunted, quaint
and pigeonholed
with regrets on foreheads.

Desolate cut on toys as teddy bears look aghast
tiny crystal balls on synthetic head quiz,
nothing left sensible but it is a return
to despair in the sky.
Not learnt yet to catch air to make
living an experience,
but cold war and nuclear threat,
lead to a summit of peace icy
and here speaks a lot about waste.

6
Herds of saints, sages and babas preach in lust
and so pimps or lesbians in prayers forget time
when gods in sterile hills dry up rivers,
and gray sky turns sedately poetic in creating
a new world.
Self-action for nasty objectives
builds wealth and destroys,
and I am driven to forty seven
and see clump of heads
in cowsheds after decades,
praying for life as raped women cursed God,
when it was a fight for freedom
and partition.

And I go back to a millennium
to locate life and grace
but I fear the curse that drives me
to live in the past,
here legends and myths confuse
and lead to dreams without a sound sleep,
and this I continue to witness even now.

7
Age suffers as a spoiled man moans and I think
loads of spiky cactus grow, pierce and bleed
but not a drop of an initiative
in search of a godhead, for a vacuum in heart scares.
Still an effort to relive and flow
with the time continues,
And I cannot correct a statue, I am an effigy
I tell
waiting for a pyre immortal,
in a valley of near barrenness.

The old town died long back, left no relics or stones
he looked busted and unkind as if somebody
drove him to death crying in tears-soaked agony
as limbs spill blood.

8
I feel it while strolling along the boulevards
and the narrow tarred roads,
I paint face to avoid gaze
of the town that looks blank and pale,
but full of people looking happy
and this shocks.
It will not go back to days of balmy solitude
for in explosive and turbulent times,
it finds meaning.

In uproar, the town gets life, since it suffocates
finds bliss in turmoil, in desolate forests
and rocky visions, tall buildings and wide roads
and the life moves on to darkness of heights.
Life of taped and wiry town grows mushy slums
open manholes gargle out dead bodies I see
with expansion it inclines to fade away,
and I can't ask more
as the town has written its epitaph
while silently I look out for gravestones.

****