To unearth the roots
of a banyan
is never easy.
Chop or hack. The old banyan
with the roots spread
over a century.

This aged city,
facing the withered glory,
now wrinkled, cracked,
weather-beaten,
with dim eyes,

has stood the time.
The heavy breath,

breathing. A river turns
into a gutter. There is humming
of vehicles. The city mumbles.

You grapple for meaning
in the traffic of noises.

The old banyan

is no more. You can no longer click
that tree at the crossroad, combing
the National Highway number eight
when you enter Vadodara.

The roots won't die.
You witness rebirth

in the mould of stone. A sculpted ghost.