We are on our way to Sanjan.
The highway is creased and uneven,
the countryside predictable.
Two bullocks pull a plough.
Newly baked bricks dry in the sun.
A border of babul trees encloses a farm.
Gaily beribboned bullock carts block
our path, as
skinny ribbed cattle munch dry grass.
As we come closer we pass
a row of women’s colored bent backs,
planting.
Sanjan’s market hugs the road on either
side.
Coconuts, chickoos, rice,
levta from the Khazan land, displayed
in baskets woven from coconut fronds.
I see Jadi Rana’s crumbling fort,
the Hindu king who welcomed
my homeless Zoroastrian forefathers.
Centurion peepals line the bank,
while along the shore
sarovars dance with the sea breeze,
where the Varavali river empties into
the sea.
I tread solemnly on this sacred soil,
for here those wandering ancestors
landed.
Stirred by the dusty pages of history,
inexplicably drawn into a deeper level
of consciousness,
I joined that weary band of exiles
as they ventured into the unknown seas
many hundreds of years ago.
What a long journey it is.
Refugees, we flee from Fars
to the Isle of Hormuz,
carrying the sacred flame
and ancient holy scriptures,
fugitives driven from home
and familiar landmarks.
Our exodus takes flight again
across unchartered seas,
hiding from persecuting Arab ships,
caught in unknown currents
until at last our oars
touch the shores of Div.
Again we sail towards a new homeland.
Violent storms buffet our frail ships
for we are lost in alien waters.
We turn imploring voices towards Ahura Mazda,
promising to build a house for the sacred fire.
He hears our prayers,
the tempest is lulled.
Providence carries our vessels
across to the sheltering shores of Sanjan.
Tired voices reverberate, confusion, profound relief.
Dry, sun burnt, weary bodies
lean into the wind as we wait to land,
where the Varavali meets the sea.
The smell of dry trodden leaves and the salty brine,
the sound of friendly voices, brings me back to my sole self.
DEENAZ P. COACHBUILDER
Riverside, California, USA
dcoachbuilder@gmail.com