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Tapan Mozumdar

The Other Ayodhya

posing tourists—
next to a sleeping Buddha
a dog pisses

We are at the ruins of Ayuthya. “Ayodhya, it was called before,” our Thai guide reminds, “and the rulers named themselves after Lord Rama.’’ From this capital city, kings and their vassals of prosperous Siam expanded their territory for 400 years.

The humid air of May is about to give way to the rains. Our guide is a resident from North Thailand, a student, braving the odds in Bangkok. She is doing her drill, part history, part fiction. She can’t stifle her yawns for long. I half-hear her stories and let my camera follow an army of ants marching through an ancient courtyard.

colors of god—
a squirrel measures each one
in easy steps

“I tell only once, listen carefully . . .” That’s our guide’s refrain before animating her monologues in a lilting accent. “In 1767, the Burmese attacked from everywhere. They burn all buildings, books. Same year, floods from three rivers destroy the city forever.”

Everyone left—animals, people, their kings, their gods. Just bricks and dreams were left behind. “Bad luck!” she concludes.

She sleeps throughout the ninety kilometers of our return journey to Bangkok. Perhaps, she needs the night for her course work.

burnt bricks—
Buddha through the roots
of yesterday

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About the Author

Tapan Mozumdar lives in Bangalore, India. He began writing haikai poetry during the lockdown period, after writing short fiction for four years. His haiku has been published in Under the Basho and has been selected for publishing on India’s first haikai calendar for 2021. This is his first haibun.