By Pabitra Kumar Gayen
Kurukshetra weeps, the war-drums hushed,
Crimson rivers flow where the sun is crushed.
The wind, a mournful dirge for kings now slain,
Whispers secrets only shadows can retain.
Sanjaya stands, his spirit torn and frayed,
Seeking solace where the battlefield is laid.
From the swirling haze, a figure nears,
A sage, time-worn, with eyes like burning spheres.
"Does truth reside in the victor's might?
Is life a candle, flickering in the night?
A fleeting dream, by time's cold breath undone?"
Sanjaya trembles, his voice a whispered plea:
"Has this earth truly drunk such agony?"
The sage's laughter rings, a resonant sound:
"War is but dust on hallowed ground,
A fleeting play of power, soon to cease,
While truth flows silent, a river of peace.
Pandavas, the senses' fleeting sway,
Kauravas, by craving, led astray.
Victory's not in vanquished, fallen foes,
But in the soul, where true wisdom grows."
Sanjaya breathes, "Then Krishna, who is He?"
The sage gazes upward, to the boundless sea:
"He is the pole star, guiding through the storm,
The charioteer, keeping the spirit warm,
The fire that melts fear into golden light.
Surrender to His hand, with all your might,
And the path will blaze, clear and bright."
Yet doubt persists, a tendril of smoke:
"Why did Bhishma, Drona, their vows invoke,
And stand with wrong, their honor stained?"
The sage sighs deep, by ages, unrestrained:
"Life is a masquerade, a dance of fate,
Childhood gods fall before time's gate.
Their truths lie buried, beneath the years' decay.
You too will face that reckoning day,
And see – truth is not a blade, nor crown.
All wars are echoes, fading renown."
Sanjaya's voice cracks, a fragile, broken thing:
"And Karna, was his fate a cursed spring?"
A tear glistens in the sage's ancient eye:
"He was desire's captive, beneath a starlit sky,
A noble soul, that stumbled and fell.
Righteousness cloaked in longing's spell,
The burning heart of man, a paradox untold!
But desire's flame, truth's banner won't unfold,
And only ashes rise from life's brief fire,
A cycle of rebirth, fueled by yearning's pyre."
Sanjaya stands, his heart ablaze and raw,
As Kurukshetra greets the twilight's maw.
A thousand questions in the dusk descend,
Leaving behind,
A dusty road, a conch's mournful sigh,
And a vast, silent canvas of the sky,
Where answers aren't etched in cosmic decree,
But felt in the heart, for all eternity.