That curled up, compact quarter-moon in me,
the idea of you, drew him beyond right, might,
duty, loyalty – the alphabet he’d been given
to learn – towards other words and whims, call
them joy, permanency. But happy warriors, or
hopeful ones, are not good currency. Heroes
are dearest when dead, Krishna knows, flammable
fodder for survivors’ guilt, rage, brutality. And what
better to stoke Arjuna’s murderous frenzy than his
betrayed, butchered firstborn? The Kaurav cousins
crushed your father’s skull, child, killed him when
unarmed, outnumbered, and despoiled the corpse.
But it is Krishna – best-loved uncle, guardian, the one named
divine, the same Krishna – that sent him to slaughter, one more
oblation to his famished earth. He was a son, Abhimanyu,
nephew, Kuru prince, brave, loyal, foolishly so; bravely, loyally
has he gone to his end. Here he lies, he that most wished to be
not hero – this, they will not tell you, child – but father.
KUNTI
OSSATURE OF MATERNAL CONQUEST & REIGN
No mother can ever love each of her sons
alike. You should know, Draupadi, you who own
two five-chambered hearts, the smaller for your sons,
the first for husbands. Yes, Karna is my son,
my firstborn, forged as a shaft of living light –
rare, brilliant – but an accident, a son
I neither desired nor envisioned, the son
born of an unsought boon, arcane spell that moved
from a sage’s lips to mine: power to move
much more than mountains or oceans – for a son
from a god could rule creation, etch your name
on myth and history, get planets renamed.
Draupadi, you ask why I left him unnamed
all these years, why I never hailed him, my son
Karna, as mine: Karna the fulgent, the name
any parent would rejoice, would vie, to name
as theirs. No, I never proclaimed him my own,
though not because he’s baseborn, unnameable,
as the bards will soon sing. For who would not name
the scion of Surya, the Sun God who lights
the world? Vyaasa too, esteemed sage, alighted
out of wedlock – yet his mother takes his name
with joy and pride. Karna was an unplanned move:
at first, that enjoined silence. Too young, too moved,
was I to resist the Sun God. When he moved
towards me, eyes locking mine, I blazed; nameless
flames of purple and copper and crimson moved
through veins, our limbs dissolved, my womb glowed. Life moved
between our thighs, taut and sinuous. But sons,
like pleasure, should serve a purpose: I had moved
Karna from my sphere for I saw none, moving
swiftly before my faithless heart could disown
good sense. I sailed the child away from his own
kismat, down Ganga’s arms – first having removed
all signs of kinship, save his father’s lighted
armour and earrings, bequest to save, to light,
his life. Years later, when his fearsome skills lit
up Hastina’s skies, I knew at once: he moved
in cursives, he quelled like a god, and the light
from his earrings drowned midnight. But aurous light
is too firm, too pure to rule the realm – namely,
not in suta-breeding lies his flaw, backlit
that day by brilliance; no, it is lightness
Karna lacks. A mother needs most from her son
compliance, chiefly to reign – the perfect son
for that is Yuddhishtir, well-trained, just half-lit
by resolve. Were I now, in public, to own
Karna, none of my sons, Child, would ever own
Kuru: Karna would crown Duryodhan owner
of earth, cede this war unfought, all to highlight
his friend’s birthright. I’d rather sever my own
breath first! And hence I met him in stealth: I owned
the truth, he learnt we’re kin. For now when he moves
in battle, he’ll know that his siblings, his own
blood, face him; know either victory is owned
by fratricide. Arjun is the only name
he’ll not spare – for their rivalry has been named
by heaven, he says; they’ll duel till death owns
one, that is written. But I’ll still have five sons,
when war ends, he swears. Who that last living son
will be rests on who can best perform a son’s
role, Karna or Arjun, who’s armed in his own
innocence; Arjun, whose arrows will delight
to greet his foe while sorrow mires Karna’s moves.
A hero bears no shame, no grace, just his name.
VRISHALI
TESTAMENT: VRISHALI WITH DURYODHANA
He is dead. Karna is dead, I
fear, for blood shrouds the moon, the stars
and your eyes. For light dies. For air
bruises my breath (thorns bloom in these
breasts). For words drown in your throat, King:
silence vanishes tomorrow.
He is dead – he must be – for why
else would a king arrest the war,
forsake field and forces, repair
to our doorstep, sink to his knees,
bareheaded, bereft, unspeaking,
and lay at my feet this mighty bow?
He is dead, yes – Vijaya, my
husband’s bow, would never stray far
from Karna’s flank, never forswear
its master’s hands, unless he ceased –
the truth screams through bowstrings – breathing.
O King, speak – unleash – your sorrow,
roar: He is dead! O Sun, deny
no more your wretched heart: blaze, char
this world of unending despair.
Let nothing rest, no birds, no bees,
no gods, no human beasts. Nothing
but grieving clouds who should echo
He is dead. He, who’d defy
gods in their heaven, who could mar
the pride of monarchs, who had dared
reshape caste’s vile coil, could not freeze
Yama’s gross tread. Yet, would Death’s sting
be mild, for so doomed a hero?
Dead. King, he saw, today he’d die
at Partha’s hands; his lifeline scarred
mortally by the age-old glare
of brahmin curses, pre-deceased
by eight cherished sons – his sole sling
your trust, brace to spine and marrow.
He’s dead now. And I must untie
the sightless mesh of his bizarre
birth and bloodline – did Bheeshma share
these stories? They sought to appease
him, after a lifetime’s shaming
and defaming: this, you must know
now he is dead. Kunti came, cried,
begged him, once and again, to war
for the Pandavas, as the heir,
as her firstborn. By sun and seas,
by earth he swore, to one sibling –
just one king – his soul he’d bestow
till he’s dead: you. Karna’s reply
never faltered. He and you are
brothers, to Krishna he’d declared,
more brothers, more braided than trees
to earth. Krishna, who’d barter king-
ship and queen for Karna’s arrows,
cheers he is dead. They deify
Krishna – the peacenik; Avatar
of Ruin is how I’d declare
such a blackguard. Karna’s last pleas –
the time to free his wheel, to string
the bow, to rise – he spurned, bellowed,
He should be dead! Partha complied,
and tore that dear neck – a jaguar
slew the lion king in a snare.
Partha, I’ll forgive: a reprise
of his son’s slaughter was his spring;
Karna among those who’d wallowed
as the boy dropped dead, felled in sly
blitz. No, dharma left our durbar
an age ago. King, you’re aware
of the sins, of rights and realms seized,
of women debased. Shadows sing
long, once breaths still and eyes hollow.
He is dead. End the battle cry,
King. Let blood from his jugular
cleanse your heart of anger, repair
your pain. It was his last dream: please
his soul, end the fratricide. Ring
out the war, let the hatred go –
for he is dead. Only the sky
remains untarnished, a vast jar
of sleeping ash. No, you’ll not spare
the few living? You’ll not release
peace from prison? You’ll let loathing
prevail. Yes, words all sound shallow
when he lies dead. Aims and thoughts dry.
Your sole relief is arms that spar –
he’d comprehend. His love, his care
for you, King, never showed a crease
through the years; friendship abiding
beyond virtue, vice, overthrow.
Dead, still young. But he’d justify
his choice, each time, of side and tsar.
At first, I warned him to beware
of you – near-jealous, in unease
at whispers of star-crossed bonding.
Then I learnt how you bade him grow.
He is dead now. But he was nigh
unalive till you met, debarred
from his own brilliance; a wild flare
doused by old moths, those gurus leased
by courts. You saw a rare being,
crowned him – then basked in mirrored glow!
For till he fell dead, tall did fly
the Kuru flag, and from afar
and near came kings, ready to swear
allegiance, over eastern seas
and northern peaks. Pride, belonging –
he brought them home from you. And though
he may be dead, love will belie
mortal blood. Keep your heart ajar,
O King, for blessings unaware.
Now, it is time. You vowed to ease
my loss: so silence my paling
pulse and voice. Light one more arrow,
for the dead. I watched eight sons die,
brothers too, on the abattoir
that’s Kurukshetra. In your care,
I leave our youngest: he still sees
life as a land worth exploring.
For mother’s joys I must forgo –
Karna is dead. My troth I’d tied
to his breath. You aligned our stars
in life, long ago, King. Prepare
to merge our bones this time. The breeze
shall strew our ashes – hand nothing
to new kin. Set our pyre aglow.
BHANUMATI
AMARANTH
For tonight, dearest heart, Time has fled the battlefield,
ashen, unable: the abyss stands unsealed.
For tonight dharma ripped out its three gagging, screaming
eyes, then slit its voice – now sutra just means string.
For tonight prayers cower in shame and all gods flee.
Like widows, words weep: shed sound, try not to be.
For tonight the sky, it prowls: a mute, livid monster
mouth gorging flesh and future, both imposters.
For tonight the earth is a vast, unending sigh.
Grief stains air verdigris; rivers putrefy.
For tonight the moon moves as a gibbous smear of blood,
dried blood, blood that bodes a chthonic flash flood.
For tonight the sun drips black, deliquesces, as do
the stars; both sea and sky turn granite anew.
For tonight, they tell me, you are gone, dearest, gone and
dead. “Dead,” they thunder, “dead,” so I’ll understand.
For tonight you become silence and smoke, dearest, ground
bone, oil, sandalwood, ash – a king by fire crowned.
SPOUSES, LOVERS
CONSTANCY VI
Before god
Before the dead
Before children
Before a world
Dance.
Before the sea drowns
Before clouds conflagrate
Before the phoenix drops
Before thorns flower
Write.
Before you leave
Before I lose
Before it rives
Before they blaze
Ravel.
Before you leave home, banished to a land named Alone
Before I lose my voice – voice that will roam spheres seeking yours
Before a border rives language from love, marrow and bone
Before words blaze through veins in jagged tongues of fire
Ravel wild cursives from a pledge
Retrieve its letters – vowels, abjads and all
Send them to safety, from lip to lip to heart and lung.
Before the sea drowns, gills clogged by a reign of blood
Before clouds conflagrate, scorch the seasons, rain dark light
Before the phoenix drops her song, sealing the casement to dawn
Before thorns flower in bronchioles and branches crowd airways
Write it all – little stories, giant histories, a few myths
Tie them to cottonseeds, so they fall in distant hands
Etch a copy on memory’s palms: call it the human crease.
Before god dies, smile trampled, a thousand arms crushed underfoot
Before the dead return like moonlight, trailing white ash and regrets
Before children swap marbles for slugs and swallow darkness at meals
Before a world of straight lines and ironclad right owns your eyes
Dance, dance on vanishing shores between night and half-light
Return, return to nest like stacked spoons, lock chest with spine
Twine hip and thigh, knit ten fingers, purl the lips – once more
Before the battle.
PADATI
II. The Son
PAWN TALK: BENEATH THE MUSIC
There is no Kurukshetra Father
No stair nor skyway to heaven no winged
chariots for warriors No heaven either
No gentle north Father no west nor east
exists No no south lined by Khandava
lush Khandava razed of blade and beast
an aeon ago with Arjuna’s bow stringed
> in royal greed No centre Father no silken
periphery with maiden rivers that ringed
a sacred strand sculpted by the hand of Shiva
No Shiva Father no devas even just endless
oceans of flesh the sky a maw spewing lava
and pitch juddering drowning earth below a broken
collar-bone of moon above and eyes eyes eyes
everywhere thousands riven stricken
lost and smashed and open blind and bloodless
Eyes Father that need no ballads nor bards
to multiply eyes that offer no more redress
crushed pearls on the chaplet of wise men’s lies
eyes that swear I will soon be one of their kind
eyes that meld into rubble and mulch while trust dies
Trust and hope and fraternity wretched shards
of humanity all dead Father seeking that battlefield
where war was sacrament where no chieftains charred
soldiers with winged astras and no kings shattered minds
and lungs with toxins Bheeshma Father the first
to break his own vajra-bond swiftly consigned
the rules of dharma yuddha to myth and flame and congealed
the breath of tens of thousands mounts-musicians-messengers-men
Vaishya-Shudra-Mahar-Shanar-Kshatriya When it came to carnage he repealed
caste and station quaffed them all though the lowest were dispersed
foremost of course to Yama’s land followed by the Eight
Virtues Yes Satya-Daya-Daan-Suchi-Kshama-and-more all submersed
this time by Yuddhishtira For Father it is true even
the noblest of kings do sin I saw the great Pandava skive
a sarathi in his seat and slash his horses a fit of sullen
rage when he could not rout the man’s master Late now too late
Father much too late to retreat-protest-berate this was never
Until the Lions Page 15