That nick in the rock is really a kick in the side of the hill. It's where a hoof struck

like a thunderbolt when Khandoba with the bride sidesaddle behind him on the blue horse

jumped across the valley and the three went on from there like one spark

fleeing from flint. To a home that waited on the other side of the hill like a hay stack.

A low temple keeps its gods in the dark. You lend a matchbox to the priest. One by one the gods come to light. Amused bronze. Smiling stone. Unsurprised. For a moment the length of a matchstick gesture after gesture revives and dies. Stance after lost stance is found and lost again. Who was that, you ask. The eight arm goddess, the priest replies. A sceptic match coughs. You can count. But she has eighteen, you protest. All the same she is still an eight arm goddess to the priest. You come out in the sun and light a charminar. Children play on the back of the twenty foot tortoise.

Are you looking for a god? I know a good one. His name is Yeshwant Rao and he's one of the best. look him up when you are in Jejuri next. Of course he's only a second class god and his place is just outside the main temple. Outside even of the outer wall. As if he belonged among the tradesmen and the lepers. I've known gods prettier faced or straighter laced. Gods who soak you for your gold. Gods who soak you for your soul. Gods who make you walk on a bed of burning coal. Gods who put a child inside your wife. Or a knife inside your enemy. Gods who tell you how to live your life, double your money or triple your land holdings. Gods who can barely suppress a smile as you crawl a mile for them. Gods who will see you drown if you won't buy them a new crown. And although I'm sure they're all to be praised, they're either too symmetrical or too theatrical for my taste. Yeshwant Rao, mass of basalt, bright as any post box, the shape of protoplasm or king size lava pie thrown against the wall, without an arm, a leg or even a single head. Yeshwant Rao. He's the god you've got to meet. If you're short of a limb, Yeshwant Rao will lend you a hand and get you back on your feet. Yeshwant Rao Does nothing spectacular. He doesn't promise you the earth Or book your seat on the next rocket to heaven. But if any bones are broken, you know he'll mend them. He'll make you whole in your body and hope your spirit will look after itself. He is merely a kind of a bone-setter. The only thing is, as he himself has no heads, hands and feet, he happens to understand you a little better. Picture Death of Krishna and Other Poems