Homeland after Eighteen Years - A 48 hour Travelogue

K L Chowdhury
79 80
Homeland after Eighteen Years
I open a window
to look outside at the lane
that led us to an undulating trail
round the Hari Parbat hill
along the foot hills
and through almond orchards,
to the temples of our pantheon of gods
that hallowed this land –
Haeri, Sharika and Sapt Rishi,
Devi Angan and Chakreshwar.
But, I do not find any trace of the lane
which has been assimilated into
a private backyard,
where a lady is sweeping a verandah.
She looks at me, all smiles,
and greets me with a namaskar,
inviting me come have a cup of tea.
I salaam her back gratefully,
shutting the window again.
Even the Hari Parbat hill
has been renamed Kohi Maran
by the powers that be
that are on a name changing spree.
That is how Shankaracharya hill
has been named Suleiman Teng,
and Anantnag of innumerable springs,
as Islamambad.
How artificial and unnatural
the new names sound to the ear,
like naming London as Jeddah
and Paris as Medinah!
As I begin to withdraw from here,
loathe to leave the gods alone
in that cold, closed chamber,
gathering the dust and moss of time,
and fading slowly into obscurity,
the man who opened the temple door
reappears, now in a police uniform,
and bolts the door behind me.
It is then that I realize he was no priest,
but a sentry on duty!