Temple town
They stand, still brown framed against flaming sunset, row after row of temple domes.
In the middle of nowhere. Nestled under green hills.
Built in the 17th century, or so the newspaper article says, in an inside story tucked between gossip and an ad for government vacancies.
Built and forgotten, this march of temple domes, brown silhouetted on orange-red.
108 temples circled within 350 metres.
The leaves on the peepal trees that line the roads flutter like prayer flags.A lone bird flies overhead.
108 temples circled within 350 metres.
Built and forgotten, except for the simple people who live there.
They take their pleas and requests to the Gods. They light ghee diyas and offer flowers on special days. They anoint the deities with vermilion and chant fractured prayers.
They tell their children the old tales of the boons, they fast on auspicious days, they invoke the Gods when calamities strike.
Built in the 17th century. In the tradition of a lineage of proud kings, traced to 185 BC. Kings who raced to build temples. Temples that would outshine their predecessor’s.
Maybe a justification, king so-and-so was here, he loved, he lived, he died.
Temples in the middle of nowhere. 108 temples under the green hills.
108 temple spires that drink in the quiet moonlight.
A town of temples. Terracotta and stone dreams for the heavens.
Built 17th century. It must have been grand then.
Now self-professed collectors walk in and leave with a piece of terracotta history, a living room centerpiece.