so it is the place of the enlightenment ,

where swarthy peddlers sell ice creams

to the unworthy tourists like me.

So here it is , this open valley where the one

lived and left behind , 2500 years ago ,

I thought I could feel his breath in each breeze,

but no , it’s just another empty field ,

another tourist attraction, and the devoted swarm in

with incense and spice to seek him in idols ,

(Oh idols wonderfully clad in silver and gold )

and the garden consecrated )

still I do not know what paths what roads what gateways

lead to him ,No, I do not know,

I’m one of many conditioned in a mock show,

unmoved to the voice from Sarnath – it has dimmed

and lost to the bright rim of the worldly sun,

like right now, it’s all been unbearably quiet and hot,

suddenly, a pillar of fire,  or an illusion

bursts up to an azure sky , soon spreads , arches,

and drips down to a patch of lazy shades .

Gulmohar , the fire tree, the nest of Phoenix,

greets me at the entrance of the holy place .

but I’m wearied , and yearning for shelter ,

I walk into the grand mystery of the tree

who, many a century ago , must have seen

him who came seek shelter under this canopy,

him who came seek alms and blessed

the approaching prince, offering a prophesy.

now I sit and meditate on the same spot ,

with no robes nor medicine in hand, forlorn ,

troubled by Dharmas of all kinds and trapped in forms,

Is my abiding worth the time ? Will I be forgiven ?

Will he approach with the gift of nirvana?

I know he once did , 2500 years go.

I reach out to the burgeoning fire above my head ,

far far away comes a hymn of a Bhiksuni .

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