Invoking

 

 The village artist had gone insane,

Everyone said

Bhola, the master sculptor

Had lost it

Ever since he had cast a Vishnu in bronze

Intricate, handsome

Reclining on the serpent of time,

In His celestial dreams

 

Eyes closed, in yoganidra

Vishnu was creating another universe

It was magnificent

All agreed,

The best that Bhola had ever made

But like all masterpieces,

It had changed the creator

Bhola was in delirium

 

So realistic and perfect

Vishnu’s form

That now the sculptor

Wanted his deity to come to life

‘It’s just an idol,’

‘It’s made of metal,’

‘Get back to making pots, idiot’

But Bhola was determined

 

He had to bring Vishnu alive

And he roamed like a madman.

The village priest,

The district pujari

Had all given up

But not the artist –

He asked every traveller,

Passerby, caravan

 

Until one day,

A wandering yogi

Came over,

Bhola, already in mourning,

Stricken with hunger, thirst and melancholy

Found a new ray of hope

‘But it will extract a price.’ the yogi said

But Bhola knew, there was only one way out

 

And so began his Tapasya

His sadhana

To bring Vishnu to earth

Even if for an instance

For once, he would be God

And God would be his art

And Bhola prayed the mantra

Meditated, divined

 

Days passed by

Nights stretched on

The villagers heard no more of the madman

Who no longer bothered others

Determined to find within

What he couldn’t find without,

In his own atelier

Of cosmic slumber and solitude

Then one night,

A storm descended on Bhaktipur

A furore unlike any others

And villagers were huddled

Reminding of Pralay

Of the Matsya,

Wishing there was a Govardhan

Hoping for a Krishna

 

But not Bhola

He was out in the storm

Singing to the lightnings

Dancing with the thunder

Ecstatic, Euphoric,

He had finally got hope

His peace in madness

His madness in divinity

 

The village woke up to

A fresh scent of dawn

A trail of destruction everywhere

Amongst the fallen trees

And broken branches

Lay a dead bedraggled sculptor,

But no sign of damage

Only a big smile of peace

 

The price was paid,

The villagers whispered

The madman no longer alive

To infect the children

With crazy tales and questions

To challenge the fabric of reality

They all sighed in morbid relief

 

Until an urchin came calling

He had broken into his atelier

And the villagers rushed to see

Bhola’s masterpiece on its sacred altar

Untouched, unblemished

Worshipped in perfection

Only that the God’s eyes

Were open, no longer closed…

 

19th October, 2024