Dear reader,
Have been reading a lot about the Nishada prince Ekalavya lately. And it occurred to me how similar, in some ways, his life is with Krsna's. Both had extremely humble beginnings and yet, with time, went on to become important names in our ancient epics. Both went on to work with important people of the times and are marked in our legends for their several heroics. If Ekalavya, despite his thumb being taken by Drona Acharya by trickery, went on to be King Jarasandha's confidant and an important member of his team, then Krsna, the son of a cowherd went on to become the king of Dwarka. Perhaps it is poetically apt that Ekalavya finally meets his end at the hands of Krsna. This short poem is, hence, a tribute to that warrior who had the gift of giving. An attribute which earns him a higher pedestal as a warrior than the rest.
~ Eka's gift ~
Droplets of bliss, hued deep red,
Fell like helpless comets, earth bound,
Sketching tiny dust craters, they hastily sped,
To their invisible destiny. On visible ground.
His chapped lips bore not a hint,
Not an inkling of the waters of disdain,
Eyes, steady, bejeweled with gems distinct,
Knew no resident from the lands of pain.
A jaggedly sawed stub, fresh and oozing,
Sent snaking streams in joint celebration,
He, head bowed for the official offering,
Regaled in company of such magnification.
Like the ancient king Satyavrata, or Manu,
Who once held a tiny fish, it had been said,
Eka's palms, washed clean with bliss anew,
Cradled lines of fate, etched in blood instead.
The aged ascetic looked on, unperturbed,
Anxious faces around him watched, amazed,
Their princely feet moved not, stayed undisturbed,
As audience to Eka – the intruder, the unfazed.
The master's hands, with much unbridled pride,
Plucked and picked up the gift of the hour,
Muttering words incoherent from every side,
Placed in Eka's red palms, a golden flower.
In the lad, the master had seen divinity,
In his humility lay the true gift he would bring,
After the conch had been blown on all humanity,
His name would stand for giving. And forgiving.
Eka vanished into the woods, head bowed,
A trail of little red tears clinging to him,
Drawing the dotted line, that would never erode,
From rust of time, in winds placid or grim.
Oily clouds shifted hazily in heavens above,
Connecting disconnecting residue of emotions,
Guiding Eka forever on the path of love,
Taking him to guide clans, build nations.
Moons later, in a grand battle far far away,
A king from Dwarka spotted Eka's smiling face,
Not a tussle of a divine and a mortal, that day,
One great leader, had celebrated another, with grace.
OTHER RECOMMENDED READS
Poem : Dvarka
Poem : Eldest Kaunteya
Have been reading a lot about the Nishada prince Ekalavya lately. And it occurred to me how similar, in some ways, his life is with Krsna's. Both had extremely humble beginnings and yet, with time, went on to become important names in our ancient epics. Both went on to work with important people of the times and are marked in our legends for their several heroics. If Ekalavya, despite his thumb being taken by Drona Acharya by trickery, went on to be King Jarasandha's confidant and an important member of his team, then Krsna, the son of a cowherd went on to become the king of Dwarka. Perhaps it is poetically apt that Ekalavya finally meets his end at the hands of Krsna. This short poem is, hence, a tribute to that warrior who had the gift of giving. An attribute which earns him a higher pedestal as a warrior than the rest.
~ Eka's gift ~
Droplets of bliss, hued deep red,
Fell like helpless comets, earth bound,
Sketching tiny dust craters, they hastily sped,
To their invisible destiny. On visible ground.
His chapped lips bore not a hint,
Not an inkling of the waters of disdain,
Eyes, steady, bejeweled with gems distinct,
Knew no resident from the lands of pain.
A jaggedly sawed stub, fresh and oozing,
Sent snaking streams in joint celebration,
He, head bowed for the official offering,
Regaled in company of such magnification.
Like the ancient king Satyavrata, or Manu,
Who once held a tiny fish, it had been said,
Eka's palms, washed clean with bliss anew,
Cradled lines of fate, etched in blood instead.
The aged ascetic looked on, unperturbed,
Anxious faces around him watched, amazed,
Their princely feet moved not, stayed undisturbed,
As audience to Eka – the intruder, the unfazed.
The master's hands, with much unbridled pride,
Plucked and picked up the gift of the hour,
Muttering words incoherent from every side,
Placed in Eka's red palms, a golden flower.
In the lad, the master had seen divinity,
In his humility lay the true gift he would bring,
After the conch had been blown on all humanity,
His name would stand for giving. And forgiving.
Eka vanished into the woods, head bowed,
A trail of little red tears clinging to him,
Drawing the dotted line, that would never erode,
From rust of time, in winds placid or grim.
Oily clouds shifted hazily in heavens above,
Connecting disconnecting residue of emotions,
Guiding Eka forever on the path of love,
Taking him to guide clans, build nations.
Moons later, in a grand battle far far away,
A king from Dwarka spotted Eka's smiling face,
Not a tussle of a divine and a mortal, that day,
One great leader, had celebrated another, with grace.
OTHER RECOMMENDED READS
Poem : Dvarka
Poem : Eldest Kaunteya
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