Epic of the Deads

How old be the Earth
How antique be the History
How many Eons gone by,
Leaflet of each is a Rhapsody;
Manuscript of the Epic of the Deads.

Then
That primitive mother on Earth,
The ancient woman of Stories,
That Sita…………..
Reborn again and again
Confining in the Garden of Glories
Of the Ravana and the Rama.

Rhapsody of ours
Spreads so vast
From Railway Station to Footpath,
From Slushy Avenues to Jatayu’s Dockyard.
Eunuch Brihannala be our Arjuna,
Our forebear is the unsighted Dhritarashtra.

Ramachandra of ours
Never reads Divine Comedy,
In front of us
Been raped upon the footpath
The menstruating Draupadi.
Have no Krishna for us.

He is stale, the Patriarch Bhishma
Buried in the Graveyard of Grain,
Inert like the Tree of Night.

These stolid Woods of Night
Carry the future of our Cities,
The carcass of Mahenjo-daro.
Every child to be born of us
Will be the voyagers
Of Tragic Karns’s inflamed path.

The old game is on
To fill the Vacuum Script
Again by void;
Some dots, white and black
Of love for the life.
Yet
Amid the Epic of the Deads
There be an episode of living grace.
There born our Mother, the Teresa
There born the Mary’s Child,
At that Crossroad
There born the Light of Asia.
For Love and Life
The Great War begets the Nightingale.
Asked by the cynic Pollster
Does it a bonus by Mahatma
Or Nineteen Forty Seven is a nuisance for India?

How much who loved Humans
When the antique laughed at someone
Who did the fault,
Nothing counts for that Calculus.
The leaflets of the Epics
Be full of Glory of Loves
For the Earth.

No solace for us
Neither for our souls.
Veda Vyasa
No solace for you too.
There is no end to the Odyssey
No words portray our Agony,
Silver worms pass
Even through the Dead Rhapsody.

Still, is there any end? No End!
Till the Horizon
To this inert void of Sahara.
No End to our Voyaging!
The poet, Nabakanta
There is no frontier to our Journey.

The meadow to be grown on our Bones
Too will bring forth the fresh Globes.
If it be a Duryodhana
Some Krishna will come and cover
Gandhari’s insight for her Son,
To keep the promise of a fragile Arjuna.



From the bare bones of the Cities
There born Einstein, the violinist
And Newton, the lover of the Universe.
There born Hocking,
Hocking of our beginning
With motto-neuron and kaput physique.
From nowhere
There dawned the Time,
The time of our life
And of the World
With a Bang in the Void.

There is no surrogate for Strive
Memoirs have no price
Price only be for Life
In that moment of Bang,
The density of infinite.

Where ends every Biography
There starts the Rhapsody,
May be the Epic of the Deads;
Yet there dawns the Time
Of some letdown moments,
Light be the final frontier of darkness.

Over the Door
Beside the Window
Dressing in an over-coat till the toe;
There waits our Brahma,
With a mask too
Our eternal Brahma forever……………