Introduction: it is the aftermath of the great war depicted in the epic Mahabharat. It is now time for the winners to celebrate and write their version of history.
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That’s why they killed Martin Luther King Jr.
Prayers for the dying
(1)
For days the sun has refused to rise or set,
The sky is suspended in perpetual twilight.
No birds or breeze to soothe paralysed minds,
Only the silence of people who
Have forgotten how to pray.
The sea too is still, no waves break
Upon the rocks, no cries of seagulls.
Far off on the horizon, a lone white albatross
Spreads its wings and prepares to fly away.
(2)
The streets are deserted; an eerie silence fills the air.
Splinters from smashed windshields and soda
Water bottles are sprinkled all over.
Few places are lit, fear skulks in alleyways;
Broken lamps throw dim shadows, the moon’s hid
Behind dark clouds of smoke: soon the sirens will
Wail & the curfew will begin.
Rats scurry, bloated with excess;
Crows and other scavenger birds drag around
Long pieces of bleeding flesh in their beaks.
Dogs range the streets in packs:
Claw & tooth demarcate territories.
Windows of homes are barred and blackened,
Shops have rough iron shutters.
There is no noise, other than the scampering
Of rats & the snarling of dogs engaged in
Furious duels over who should have what.
It is Sunday, yet no bells ring out
And no calls for prayer.
O stars that still care enough
To shine in the dark like beacons of hope
Teach us to pray for the dead
And those of us who have
Yet to complete the process of dying.
Yudhishthira 1
I who answered the eternal question
The spirit of the pool put to me,
Now feel the creaking of my own spirit,
Weary of one lie too many
At this darkest of hours,
Darkness, un-pierced by the
Rays of morning sunlight.
It persists and will
Continue to persist for
Eons till the sun collapses, some
7.9492 million years from now.
How many worlds like ours
Have been dragged away unwilling
From their orbits by swollen suns?
How many suns have collapsed
Within themselves to nothingness?
Yet the emptiness of time
Swirling in a vortex is more
Full than the emptiness within
Me: stronger than vacuum,
Emptier than a galaxy deserted
By hope.
Alone, I grope in the darkness
For my scepter.
Bhishma 2
Making a promise is easy,
The glory of the spoken word
Uttered in haste. Forced by fate,
A lustful father & my own folly,
I raised two generations of
Misfits. Found them wives, fought
Their wars, nursed them in ill health
Condoned their weaknesses.
Now around me the fires of a million
Pyres smoulder in the setting sun.
Flames crackle to cook flesh
For vermin to feed on.
All that is left of moments past
Are ashes blown about by an evil wind.
Tomorrow will be no different,
The sunset will still be blood red,
Carrion birds satiated will still circle overhead,
More from habit than
In search for a new meal.
Bhima 3
What does one do after he
Has drunk the blood
Of his enemies?
Search out new ones?
Scorn, hatred and treachery
Have dried the blood in the
Gnarled veins of our land.
The dying moon hovers uncertainly
Above us as twilight tries to set in.
A twilight from which our
Land will never emerge.
The stars still manage to shine
But they too will soon be snuffed out.
Darkness will reign.
Darkness of the unholy night,
A night from which we will never
Awaken.
Ashwathama 4
Were it only the darkness
I would not mind.
Pure unblemished emptiness
With the promise of morning light.
Anything, anything but this
Eternal twilight where the sun
Has forgotten how to rise or set
And time has halted in mid-flight.
Owls shriek, widows wail, winds howl
And yet the hour refuses to pass.
Emptiness of the setting sun
Embrace me in your solitude.
I who have held the destruction
Of the universe in my hands
Seek the redemption of the
Funeral pyre.
So many pyres rage unchecked
Around me -
And yet none is mine.
Farmer
Yes, I know it’s my sacred duty to die,
Part of my karma.
But can I not wait till my cow calves?
Better still, let me till my land,
For the skies promise a good rain.
Once the harvesting is done,
I will follow you.
Yes, indeed I will.
I have still my loan to repay,
Else I will lose my land.
Yes, last year, when the river
Ran dry (You must have seen it on the TV news!),
I took a loan
And now I must repay it.
After that I will follow you
Wherever you want: Siachen,
Gilgit, the Rann of Kutch,
Across the seas, over deserts,
Wherever,
Just let me plow my fields till
the rains begin.
Then, I will follow you.
Indeed I will!
Scribe
Now that we have emptied
A million wombs,
Robbed time of her progeny,
Frozen the moment in eternal twilight,
Emptied the oceans and filled
The skies with fearsome cries,
We must search for the right words,
So that those who come after us
Will understand that this was
The way it was all meant to be.
Trains screech back and forth
With scarred bodies no one
Wishes to claim. Never mind,
Fire rejects no one &
The rest we can bury elsewhere.
Scatter the ashes
To the winds, let them carry
Over fields now fallow, cracked
By draught, awaiting the rains
That have to come, just have to come.
Epilogue
No, it doesn’t take nature long
To reclaim all she has lost:
Creepers will soon cover every
Cracked and crumbling structure,
Trees with long probing roots
Will sprout among the debris of
Banks, libraries and municipal buildings.
Brick and stone will return to the earth.
Rains will wash away the shame
and humiliation of victory.
No, it doesn’t take nature long
To reclaim all that has been lost.
But can the rains bring hope and replenish
Our faith? Can we ever learn to forgive
And forget? Will the victors ever learn to ask
For forgiveness and the defeated learn to forgive?
Will we ever learn how to pray for the dead
And those who have yet to complete
The process of dying?
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1.Yudhishthira, the eldest of the five Pandavas, was supposed to be the son of Yama, the god of death and dharma (the path of righteousness). Yama, in the guise of a water spirit, put certain philosophical questions to Yudhishthira, who answered them correctly and hence brought his brothers back to life. Yudhishthira, however, was compelled to lie during the great war in order to get rid of his guru Dronacharya, who was in command of the opposing army. This untruth led to the death of Dronacharya and tarnished Yudhishthira’s unblemished record as an apostle of truth.
2.Bhishma (or Bhishmpitama) was the son of King Santanu and the sacred river Ganga. In order to win the hand of a new wife for his lonely father, he had vowed never to marry, so that the progeny of his stepmother would inherit his father’s kingdom. “Bhishma” literally means one who has undertaken a terrible oath. His real name was Devarata. Arguably, this act of renunciation was responsible for the events that led to the tragic war portrayed in the Mahabharat.
3.Bhima, the second of the five Pandavas, had vowed to drink the blood of his cousin Duhsasana, who had attempted to disrobe his wife Draupadi. During the ensuing war, Bhima managed to fulfill his terrible vow.
4.Ashwathama was the son of guru Dronacharya. He was condemned to eternal life by Lord Krishna because he had misused the Brahmastra, the ultimate weapon of destruction.
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