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 .