Devagiri, Hill of Gods

Trees and grass do not remember them now. Only us, bare stone and rock, the very earth, still listen to their long gone footfalls and lament them. Deep they delved us, strong they hewed us, fair they wrought us, high they built us. Tall towers and crests of steel, invincible fortresses of power and glory. There ---on my tallest Minar flies the standard of kings. Listen to the horses as they neigh--- make way for the cavalry as they charge out to meet the foe!

Ah! Time! You great leveler. Where are they now? Shadow has crept into my crevices. Lizards roam where once beauty was veiled. I remember the bloodshed, the turmoil and victories; and the defeats and making of legends. For I am Devgiri, the hill of Gods.

Where are the Yadavas? The people of Krishna? Bhillama, the rebel prince of Chalukyas laid the first stone of my foundation in an age only half remembered. Where is now the cruel intent of Ala-ud-din Khilji, who brought the proud heads of Deccan below the pedestal of Delhi a thousand years later? And where is now the handsome face of Malik Kafur laughing as he flayed the last king of Yadavas alive?

Oh! I recall Muhammad bin Tughluq who changed my name but not me. My fate changed hands from Zafar Khan of Gulbarga to Akbar Shah in Delhi, until, one day, Aurangzeb set foot in my hills and beckoned glory away to Aurangabad, his seat, his seal of empire.

Hearken! Beyond all the fell voices of war and ruin, can you still not listen to the calm chants of peace? Disciples of Goutama, believers in renunciation! How like dew falls the words of enlightenment on my ears—

Buddhang Sharanang Gachchhami!

Sanghang Sharanang Gachchami!

Dhammang Sharanang Gachchami!

Alas, they are gone to, passed away forever from this world of strife and sorrow!

Still I remain. Reflection of my old glory. Trembling in the ever flowing river of time. I remain, as remain the people of this land. Small people, little farmers and cattle grazers; poor people, counted by none and yet uncountable! Together, we have seen the tides of this world turn too many times. Endless days have come and gone bringing joy or sorrow, prosperity or decay. Together, we have changed, metamorphosed, weathered and stood by. Valiant swords have rusted while the plow still shines in the sun. Songs of battles have died but still the songs of wheat rise from hearth and home at the return call of evening.

Lives become history. History becomes legend and legend turns to myth. Slowly, slowly, only old wives’ tales remain, and old wives, with their old men, and great grandchildren, to tell the tales. Thus is the way of life, and thus I, Devgiri, who also am Daulatabad, say “I am”.