By Shomik Dasgupta
He who steers the languid dawn and wakes the world up, O Mitra of Light!
Begets this bard to bow to the Stygian dusk, the Varuna of Night!
O Aryamana of Fortune! Whom sages praise as the son of Aditi
How can we beseech thee without Bhaga, Vanquisher of Impudicity?
To Savitar we hymn, whose chariot lashes o’er the worldly prejudices,
Usher our souls into the sea of Vivasvan’s benefices!
Thou blessed us, accursed bards-
to chant thine glories with unspoken merry,
And dance attuned to fate, O Anshuman and Ansha of Aditi!
To Tvastr, thus, we bow! Who contrives every fabric of the Samsara;
To Daksha of Yore! Who commands mortals from the palace of Dharma.
O Pusan! Sail this infernal soul to the Sagara of Kshira,
As this bard prays, remembers Vishnu and writes of Satyasraya.
On lands where reigned the vile- in guile they lived, and ate and smiled, as saints drown’d aghast,
The sage of yore arrived, with a grace from the Devas, golloped the viles alive;
Upon those blessed lands, there wail’d the blood of Raanaraga, with prowess amassed;
Born was the heir ‘tween the men that fought, who’d seek his shade and cower at his sight.
Lift the banner and raise your steel high for Satyasraya of the august line!
Whose veins hath the fury when ousted in shame,
And burn’d the prince of war in duplicit flame.
But dare not O bards, to sing of the end yet!
Gallop’d the brave over meanders of the foe,
And face’d the renegade with a brutal show,
Whose sheathe fell in fury at the roaring threat.
Clash’d the bones and the gleaming steel, and echoed the skies with agony;
Danc’d the groans, tuned to the moans, of lust that braced the kingly malady.
‘Fore the dawn would gaze, and rust would clasp his blaze, of Ranavikrama,
Reeds of his life found glint of the prince's knife, gnashing as a rhapsody.
Anon the crown to the lion, and orison for the scion, awashed by waves of his blade’s ember;
Behold his hooves that cleaves through the arching roofs, and smiting all Gangeya’s splendour.
Afore the South could breathe, and the forces could wreathe, betimes in zest the boar of Chalukya!
Billow the flags with the boars, and lashes of the seas, turn’d his blade toward Kanchi’s grandeur.
The host of the spears, the array of the tusks, attuned to the sway of war,
Mahamalla fought, with all the might and wrought, yet calamity rode with the boar.
Robb’d the pride, robb’d the brides, and filled their chalices with apathy.
Then all rejoic’d and revel’d, but the king was gazing 'cross Harsha's lore.
O Reva! I bear thy waves when pride brandished ambitions in ire,
As the mortals stomped ‘cross the rains and storm upon the carmine mire.
Scarlet be the skies, and wild be the woods, as Harsha march’d and march’d;
Bawl’d thus his men, afore the Rudra of death as in ire they scorched.
Awaiting was the Lord, impatient was his sword, as Reva swell’d;
Star’d his archers at the sky that awoke with light as trumpets yell’d.
But Maya cast a veil on Harsha’s gale as fate turn’d his face away;
Piqued was the Lord of Reva’s North as avidity held his sway!
As Devaraja charged at Reva’s stir, Harsha storm’d forth in a divine err;
But the Earth would hold his men and bound be their feet amidst the Chalukyan snare.
Asunder went the blades, as the Boar was enraged as fate crooned his victory;
Mellow’d were his robes and weighted were his brows as Harsha gasped in misery.
O Urvasi, did you see how the mast of his pride was gnash’d and shivered?
Deluged were his eyes, despair’d was his being as by the dead, Harsha withered.
As Sharad braced Ganga whose hymn calmed the dead, Harsha quoth, the wisest of men—
“Let triumph be thy crown, O Chalukya yet beware the Mamalla hounds!”
Solemn was the North in promise of peace yet the past came back to haunt;
Follied were feathers on his autumn crown, one that came back to haunt.
Far from the galore of the pomp and the lights, sat the Lord with his Scribe,
And quoth with a tone, bedevil sewn and stare as southerly cold-
“’Twas a time when brawn ruled my veins and there was hunger in my blade;
Malign’d the king, and stomped his crown, and blazed his polis with my hate.
To forget was my err that wounds remember- all that abhor dwells deep.
I fear, this detest shall wrest all I hold dearest, before I go to sleep!”
Then came the sunset as march’d a son affronted,
And drove a vile kismet as redress is what he lusted.
Placid was his mind, pallid his arms, of the Lord;
Senescence masked his heart yet exalted was his sword.
There was a dance of the skirmish as Vatapi warred;
To avenge his father’s death, the son rammed the wall.
Addled was the city, ran his men amok as the Chalukya drown’d in fury and smoke.
Age had veiled his arms, and glory left his sword yet his blade ran amuk with pride embossed.
Chiliads of necks swirled in deluge of blood as the old Lord roared midst Pallava’s flood.
Burn’d every tower, burn’d every home, and burn’d in tears the Chalukyan beloved!
Ne’er shook the Lord with his scarlet sword, his soul unflinched before the Pallava reprove.
Swedg’d the old Lord toward the unscathed son, whose gilded armour brimmed with a vengeful scorn.
Such was his scorn that his blade outshone and scathed the Chakulya with slashes enwrought.
Muted were his words, and hush’d was his pryte, begot his being o’er cadaver of naughts!
Those assembly of Gods, lifeless they stood as Yama sneaked in as slowly as he could.
Thus, doth end this tale of the triumphant whose pages now burn with memory and hate.
Dreams veil my quill in a slumber of Maya, as I hymn to thee, O Satyasraya!