vijayanagar
by Janice Pariat
[ poetry - september 10 ]
while we moved from ruin
to ruin, all I could think of
was hands.
that trembled
as they carved Ganesha's
eyes. a single stone for a
single statue, no untoward tap
or careless chisel. how else
to prove their worth?
hands that wrinkled
as they sculpted the
lingam submerged
in water, built for a widow
in perpetual sorrow.
calloused hands that coiled
a stone-grey snake
at Narasimha's feet
and shaded his eyes with
the cobra's hood.
hands that ached
while carving petals
that would never close
in weariness or death.
bare palms
that carried boulders,
brushed away splinters,
dipped into Pushkarni,
broke and bled.
magician fingers
that crystallised stories
so they wouldn't fade
from memory, or become
a pale echo on someone's lips.
fists that sealed music into stone
even though their sculptured
chariot would neither turn nor
ride into battle.
somewhere between the lotus
mahal and empty elephant
stables, a blind coconut-seller.
we watched
as he felt for fruit,
and held a knife poised
over the edge in judgement,
conducted a careful slice,
a solemn handing over ~
in that instant of saturated
sunlight and gold dust,
stood an empire beneath
his hands.
