History, peeping coyly through the windows of far forgotten forts, palaces and temples.
Doubtful of how it is remembered, how it is twisted, how it is altered to attract and serve tourism.
Looking with pride at the palaces and forts standing their ground for centuries.
Awed by the river that once embraced and blessed all, now swallowing sins of people. Worshipped, for soul cleansing, while choking her.
Remembering the tenderness with which the sculptors chiselled each design. Caressing, worshipping each goddess they carved out of stone.
Recalling the rustle of the silk skirts of Queens, following their feet. Soft, tender, adorned with heavy tinkling anklets.
The reverbrating sound of the brass bell at the entrance of the temple. Recollecting the fragrant, colourful flowers she offered with her eyes closed and soul awake, pure, in reverence.
Remembering the blinding reflection of swords shining mercilessly in the first light of the Sun.
The Sun, the sword's metal and water of river turning into gold alike.
How it was, how it is remembered now. How was it written by whom? How it was kept true and intact, how it was changed!
History, like an old lady remembers helplessly, peeping through the windows of palaces, forts and temples.
Doubtful of how it is remembered, how it is twisted, how it is altered to attract and serve tourism.
Looking with pride at the palaces and forts standing their ground for centuries.
Awed by the river that once embraced and blessed all, now swallowing sins of people. Worshipped, for soul cleansing, while choking her.
Remembering the tenderness with which the sculptors chiselled each design. Caressing, worshipping each goddess they carved out of stone.
Recalling the rustle of the silk skirts of Queens, following their feet. Soft, tender, adorned with heavy tinkling anklets.
The reverbrating sound of the brass bell at the entrance of the temple. Recollecting the fragrant, colourful flowers she offered with her eyes closed and soul awake, pure, in reverence.
Remembering the blinding reflection of swords shining mercilessly in the first light of the Sun.
The Sun, the sword's metal and water of river turning into gold alike.
How it was, how it is remembered now. How was it written by whom? How it was kept true and intact, how it was changed!
History, like an old lady remembers helplessly, peeping through the windows of palaces, forts and temples.
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