Irony is one of the most striking features of Kolatkar's poetry and the treatment of the theme of thirty - one poems in Jejuri is marked ironical from the beginning to the end. Kolatkar maintains, more or less, an attitude of detachment throughout. In the opening poem of the sequence, the poet describes the overnight bumpy busride to the temple town of Jejuri, where the Khandoba temple is situated. The protagonist tells the reader that, if he were sitting in the bus, he would see his own face divided in a pair of glasses on an old man's nose, and this divided face is all the countryside he would get to see:
Your own divided face in a pair of glasses
on an old man's face
is all the countryside you get to see.
The Priest shows the ironical portrayal of the custodian of the Khandoba temple who is impatiently waiting for a busload of pilgrims to arrive that morning at Jejuri. He is not a pious person; he is worldly wise. He wonders whether he will get only pilgrims on their heels and haunches gaping at the deity without offering any cash or whether he would get “puran poli” that day. His young son, who is deputed to show the pilgrims round the temple premises, is ignorant. He cannot tell the protagonists the names of the five demons who were killed by Khandoba and who are now symbolized by the five hills surrounding the temple. Instead, he tries to divert the protagonist's attention by pointing to a butterfly sitting on the grass below.
In A Low Temple, the statue of a goddess appears to have eighteen arms to the protagonist in the dim light, but the priest stoutly maintains that it has eight arms. The disparity could not have been more glaring and the irony could therefore, not have been more striking. The protagonist has to agree: “All the same she is still an eight - arm goddess to the priest.” In Scratch, Kolatkar says that there is no crop in Jejuri other than god. God is harvested in Jejuri throughout the year and round the clock. This is an ironical way of denying the existence of any god and doubting the authenticity of any belief in the stories which have accumulated around the name of the local deity, Khandoba. The irony continues when we are told that a particular rock is Khandoba's wife who had been killed and turned to stone because of Khandoba's wrath. Even the scar left by the sword, which Khandoba had used to kill his wife, is visible on the rock. Then comes the climax:
scratch a rock
and a legend springs.
Chaitanya informs us that the stones of Jejuri are sweet like grapes
and chaitanya
he popped a stone
in his mouth
and spat out gods.
The implication of course, is that belief in gods is absurd.
Heart of Ruin is steeped in irony. The roof of a temple dedicated to Maruti has collapsed, and the temple is in ruins. But neither Maruti nor his devotees seem to mind it. It is no longer visited by pilgrims. A mongrel bitch has given birth to a litter of puppies who roam about the place freely. The clicking sound of the broken tiles on the floor of the derelict temple sends a dung beetle scurrying for shelter in the broken charity - box that lies beneath one of the beams that has fallen from the roof of the temple. The “mongrel bitch” and her “pariah puppies” have a free run of the place but it is still considered sacred and holy.
In The Blue Horse, irony arises from a contradiction between what is supposed to be the case and what actually is the case. The picture on the wall shows a white horse though Khandoba's horse was blue. When the protagonist points out this contradiction, the priest says that, to him, the picture of the horse on the wall looks blue, he then imparts a blue tinge to the belly of the horse in the picture. Here Kolatkar ironically describes the singer and her accompanists as
god's own children
making music.
Yeshwant Rao is perhaps the finest use of irony in Jejuri. Here we have a whole catalogue of gods, each of whom has his own sphere of authority and can confer a particular blessing on the pilgrims visiting the temple. There are gods who you seek for your gold; there are gods who you seek for your soul; there are gods who can make you walk safely on burning coals; there are gods who can put a child inside your wife or a knife inside your enemy, and so on. Yeshwant Rao is the god you must meet if you are short of a limb; he will give you another hand if you have lost your original hand, and he will restore your feet if they have become inserviceable. The poem is a downright assault on all the gods, irony being the chief weapon of attack.
The Railway Station at Jejuri is a picture of inefficiency; it hardly functions. Here the indicator has faded; the clock does not tell the time; the dog dwelling here has a “mangy” body; the “novice” at the tea stall throws dishwater on your face if you ask him something; the booking clerk only gives you a ticket but tells you nothing about the arrival of your train; and the “two headed” station master who does not believe in any railway timetables published after the railway station at Jejuri was commissioned and “the track was laid” long ago. The passenger is desperate because he has long awaited for a train to arrive at the railway station. He is willing to slaughter a goat as a sacrifice, to smash a coconut on the railway track, to bathe the station master in milk, to give a gold toy train to the booking clerk, or to do anything else if someone were to tell him when a train would arrive at the railway most station.