Worshipers stripe

their foreheads and necks

for protection and blessings

with vibhuti ash from the thali.

The pujari’s saffron wrap

reflects orange and yellow

from the marigold garland

on the black nandi seated beside,

larger than himself.

Wearily, his face wrapped in surrender,

a guardian to the open, sunlit temple,

born to worship, to protect

Shiva’s sanctum before him.

At the distant rear, the garbhgriha

beams faint incandescence,

emanating from an oil lamp

hanging from the ceiling

and another from the aarti thali—

through a tunnel of rectangles in rock

into a dark, vast hall

held by pillars.

His cotton shawl reflects the colors

of a bed of marigolds placed in chant,

spread upon the yoni.

Garlands adorn the black monolith,

a lingam striped sandalwood-white.

Slow drops of milk splash on its tip,

dripping from the abhiseka kumbha above.

The smell of burning oil lamps lingers,

sparks crackle at the wick,

flickers stirred by whiffs

in the wake of worshipers—

this becomes his world.

He wakes this calm

with gongs of the hanging brass bell,

the small chime held

between fingers of his left hand,

circling the thali in prayer.

He pours ghee with a silver spoon,

all in reverence of the atman in rock.

Standing at the threshold,

he peers outward,

eyes glazed,

into the dimness of the hall,

held by carved deities and apsaras,

appearing in the faint sunlight

from the temple entrance.

With the play of light behind him,

white eyeballs seem to veer

from dark sockets.

His life governed by the sun,

in dimness.

Guardian of rituals, repeated

by people long gone,

stretched through the fabric of time,

preserving their meaning—

guarded by kirtimukha and dwarapalas,

bound to the nāda in stone.

For to leave would be to abandon

this womb of his lineage.