I have stood there, with the streaming water,
Aeons have passed by; millions have perished in the sand under the gleaming Sun,
I have seen the naked saint, who preached virtues and equality to the trusting people,
I have witnessed the sacrifices, the ordeals of the ‘Virtuous, the Best of Men’,
Whose greatness has been hailed by ageless epics.

Shrieks, Blood, Gore, Agony
can remember them all, roaming on the streets, with the Son of Timur
Reeling under colossal pain, I have lost the will to stand up.
The anchor I have been tied with, for centuries, has been destroyed.
Bruised, battered, grasping for air, no more am I ‘the city as beautiful as Paradise.’
Pain, suffering, corpses, and a monument that touches the sky,
That’s all my exhausted eyes can see.
I can remember them all, roaming on the streets, with the Son of Tim

Centuries have elapsed, but the suffering remains;
Kings have changed, but their spirit remains.
The streets have become narrow, so have thoughts,
Ambitions have grown, so has greed;
I never desired the glory,
I never liked the colour of blood,
Survival is all I crave for.

No more am I the Land of verses, epics, or prose,
Known only for the one that fell, onto which another one rose,
I can no more find the enlightened pen,
Known to be mightier than the sword,
It is shrouded perhaps by the many,
Who can be seen wielding a trident.
With blood oozing from my wounds,
I remember that I am
The Unconquerable Land.

The water of Saryu has seeped into my blood,
It has and will stand the testimony of my Survival
Through the Shrieks, the Gore, and the Agony –
I am AYODHYA,
And I CANNOT be conquered.

***

NOTE: The city of Ayodhya, once termed prosperous and beautiful like Paradise, is now only known, unfortunately, as a flashpoint of communal violence. Despite its immense historic and cultural value, the city has largely been ignored, used only as a tool for political mobilization in the recent past. The pain it has gone through from the mythic era of Ram to the horrific violence it witnessed in the aftermath of the infamous demolition of the Mosque cannot be measured in words. This poem is dedicated to the spirit of the city.

***

Author : Ashish Dwivedi

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