The Son’s Sorrow ( Abhimanyu’s Lament)

As I eavesdropped , lazy, on your prowess,
Within my cosy womb, so devoid of stress,
Heard you narrate on swift, secular strategies,
Me so proud of our ancestral, deprived horologies ,
You, impeded by Krishna, in his opaque, timeless balance,
From revealing all; mom, comfort zoned, tired in lost trance,
Me, rendered thus a partial warrior, experienced to enter,
None could, my futile and forlorn fury, withstand or deter,
My thought was just to be you, your hero , you my warrior,
We are but a race prior scrolled, born to be scarred superior,
I knew I was foregone, strewn ere I entered the field, the ring ,
Where the seasoned , experienced are unfair to the bold young,
They saw me destroy formations and bastions, in my fearsome retreat,
Broke my armour, but not my confidence in devious, combined deceit,
Oh! Father I cannot be you only because, the aged held back,
Refused the youth to disclose all , the truth to generously unpack.
On this set up battlefield of guilt, I have failed,
You hear my name, brave and loud and I am so ashamed .

The Father’s Sorrow- Dhrithrashtra

Me, a father lost in filial love, so normal,
Power, trove , land all are in every sense so real,
Kin’s descendants are best banished by kings all,
Into dark, waxed walls domiciled, spirits ever enthrall
Me blinded by self centredness,
Encouraged aggressive rootlessness,
Fratricide; deaf to their pleas,
Ignored mediator even on lease,’
Tonight as I feel, step on myriad corpses strewn,
Kids and dreams interspersed on abandoned fields as one,
No juvenile is now saved for the battle future,
Fled lances, hurt my feet, no needle to wound suture,
I search for a son to lead me, sit by my side,
Hold me, light my pyre in whose flames I shall hide.

Sudama’s Penury

All that I have are four fistfuls of borrowed rice,
Fried, neat , packed in tatters, hid dark with dice,
In exchange for these, I hope to borrow some wealth,
Some relief from this frail but famished, hungered health,
Never mind that I starve, am a wandering mendicant,
With this little wrapped move, now a subtle supplicant,
Penury benumbs me but , hold! My partner weeps,
In sorrow and hunger even as she dream sweeps,
I am thus forced by this insecurity to set out,
Seek my friend’s clout for some sudden bailout,
His embrace shames me, my tears hide my guilt,
Mortifying warmth gnaws deep, now love quilt,
Cannot beg from a friend, so I shall retreat,
To forgive me, I shall beseech and entreat.
Krishna, you read my blank mind, hear my silence,
As you wish away my poverty, I have no grievance.
Save that if you gift me everything,
To think of you, I am left with nothing.

Balarama’s Story

Forever, brother Krishna, I live in your shadows,
Defending joyously all your pranks in them meadows,
With your disc, and my mace , the plough and pestle,
We strove, together to beat them in wrestle,
They, only wrote your name on every leaf,
I accompanied you , partook every loaf,
They , worshipped you at every nook,
They heard your flute at every brook,
I dreamt your success, lapped up your words,
Writhed as my students at war with swords,
Held your hand, your restraint on my shoulders,
As I in wrath, rolled and re-rolled boulders,
For me and the world you are all that matters,
As history ignores me, my heart is at times in tatters.
For I know,
History is you.


As you look so indifferently away,
A thousand barbs stick and stay,
A multitude of arrows pierce so curt ,
My hand, my heart, my feet, they hurt,
Ingratitude in its relentless chase,
of yesterdays and years not a trace,
I lie on these banks of burning ghats,
The motherly waters in agonized knots,
Helpless at this ordeal, of my lowly fate,
Munificence of karma in its slowly rotate,
I seek a pillow from your quiver to rest,
Await my liberation from a curse so aghast,
For all my reticence, I shall now seek the Sun,
As it moves from South to North on a season turn,
I lie on your bed of arrows, yet so divine,
Your thousand names I recite, now so nervine.

Patience of the bystander

As you sit in guard of exuberant life now so inert,
On a dilapidated wood of thought, a seat so inept,
White and grey feathers flutter so tired and quiet,
On the sill of some brittle hope, now in retreat,
Walls white, yet shaded shabby with yester year’s soot,
Bricked in historic mud, now blood red,replete with dust,
Soiled by time so cold,sad, rattled by creaky railings unkempt,
Dread of every passing day, an intolerant air bed, sore, in slight,
You fend off every onslaught of a rude threat,
Ward off evil visit of spirit, winged bat in flight ,
You stare in your deaf anger and the intruders flee,
Yet it is never a moment to celebrate in dried glee,
For fear that them traitors, vampires might return,
Dead of night so chilly ,heavy, benumbing in every turn,
Until morn you resolutely smile, hum through the yells,
Sleep now staring hard, drifts so brutal as resists stalls
Silence, void of nurse who left desolate,
It is just that optimist’s grit.