by Parminder Singh
History vouches for its sanctity,
myths glorify it
the supernatural wings
of divinity are attached to it
since the childhood
of my great-great grandfather,
even beyond that.
My father once told me of a man
who sits outside the verandah
of this place, synonymous to the ‘spiritual’
and has seen innumerable onslaughts
of brutality, of profanity.
My father was told about the man
by his father, who knew it from his own.
None is sure about his age, or motive.
Everyone alive who has visited the place
vows that this face is familiar.
I take my daughter, now six, holding her finger,
cross the verandah, heart pumping.
Sight falls on him, eyes meet eyes,
he smiles and says,
“Here you come, after thirty years!”
Bewildered, I rush to him, touch his feet.
I ask so many questions,
people gather and tell me
Baba doesn’t ever speak.
I cannot distrust my ears
but leave the place
to finish the rest of my pilgrimage.
***
I was eight then, but can recall
the glimmer of the eyes,
it’s the same.
It’s rare that you witness
the lines blurring
between the temporal, the spatial,
the physical and the metaphysical.
