Karna

The entire night passed in a daze. Not a wink of sleep. Had he found a mother or lost one? He did not know. He felt like the waters in a lagoon; it knows not whether it belonged to the river or the sea. He wept all night. Kunti had asked him not to kill her sons, his half-brothers. If he did not, he would be betraying himself and his dear friend, a friend who had embraced him when all others had ostracised. I cannot spare Arjun were his last words to his mother as he turned away from her moist gaze. He had been deprived of her love and affection all his life; and now when he wanted to rest his head on her laps and weep, he could not. And he knew deep inside that she longed to clasp her long lost son, close to her bosom as well. He could not let emotions get the better of his ideals. So he walked away.
Hidden in all his agony, was a shimmer of joy. The Pandavs were his brothers. Arjun was his brother. Circumstances had forced him to take up arms against Arjun, but he adored him at heart. Deep down inside he knew he could not kill his younger brother. He stared at the starry skies and painted his thoughts on the wide spotted canvas. A young Karna playing with his five brothers-piling on each other, running around, flinging each other into the waters. The thoughts melted away into slumber.
It was the big day in the battle. Krsna knew it better than all. Arjun was to fight Karna. He knew that Arjun did not stand a chance. But only one man knew of what was to come-Karna. The chariots of the two great warriors stood face to face, about a couple of hundred yards apart. The soldiers stood by, no one moved a muscle. This was going to be etched in history in letters of gold. The charioteers snapped the reins of the horses, and the chariots jumped to life. Thousands of friends and foes watched. Arjun was said to be invincible, but they knew he had finally met his match. Karna on his part knew what he wanted to do but knew not how. He looked at Krsna, advancing towards him. He shut his eyes. Krsna, you know all. Give me all the courage I need. The chariot halted with a sudden jerk. Karna jumped off to find a wheel of his chariot stuck in a puddle. He looks up at Krsna, Arjun’s charioteer, a few yards away. Krsna smiled back as if to say I heard you. Karna kept his bow and quiver aside as he knelt by the wheel. He looked away as he tried with to pull up the wheel. And he waited. He waited and waited until he felt the sharp and heavy piece of iron pierce his heart. He fell to the ground, looked up at Arjun and smiled. In the numbing silence that followed in the battle field, Karna could hear the voices of his brothers, his mother Kunti, his friend Duryodhan. He was content-he had lived up to his Dharma towards his friend, mother and brother. The golden orb in the distance sunk below the horizon. Darkness embraced the battlefield as Karna shut his eyes for the eternal sleep.

The stained remnants of my
Sins remain unwashed.
Red, still fresh, bleeding
Through the wounds of my soul.

Flesh-
My immortal self, seethes
In its sweltering stench;
Provoking the orgy of emotions:
Draining all of me.

Osru jole bohiya jai,

Bedonai bhora klanto mon;

Shithil hoye shikol bedhe,

Nijeke keno rekheche gopon?

NH 44

The drive from Guwahati to Shillong, judging from my memories, has been quite pleasant. The ascent from the hot, humid plains to the hills through winding roads, the scent of cold misty air gushing in through the pulled down glass of the speeding vehicle, is an experience to behold. The leaves of trees keep growing smaller and smaller till spiky pine trees decorate the facade of the hills like green rippling curtains. One does come across human habitations, mainly small Khasi villages by the roadside, making a living out of business the commuting vehicles generate. The short statured, shawl clad, red-lipped betel leaf chewing inhabitants going about their daily business is a pleasant sight.Communicating has never been a problem. They speak their own unique dialect of Hindi, bearing the tone of their mother tongue; quite intelligible though.
About ten kilometers before entering Shillong, one drives along the most scenic stretch of the entire journey, along the Barapani reservoir. The placid waters, with the rays of the sun enmeshed, as if dancing with the ripples. Small islans jut out of the water here and there. One of the most picturesque spots one could encounter.
Sadly, things have changed now, as an aftermath of progress perhaps-the thrust towards development.Unknowingly, we are destroying the natural heritages that have lived on for ages. The four laning of the highway has led to excavations of the slopes running along the road. The amount of deforestation is simply heart rendering for anyone who has grown up plying these roads, admiring the beauty of the trees lining the driveway. The tiny hamlets that existed earlier have now been transformed into caverns of concrete. The carpet road which though a narrow one, was a pleasure to drive on, is replete with potholes.It has become nothing less than a nightmare. Adding to the woes are the traffic blockades being caused by the construction work. All in all, another jungle of concrete and malba is being created. Indeed, this is modernisation as some would call it, but i still prefer the same old drive that lingers on as a faint,fading memory.

Stained

Stained pieces of glass:
Red;
Remnants of the shattered past,
Lay scattered in my tainted memory.

Blood trickles out of torn veins,
As the pain hazes out
In doses of morphine
Soon, they wouldn't suffice.

The stench of old scum
Undulating heaps,
Never disintegrated in time.
They now choke the lungs.

Vision blurs in clouds of smoke;
My soul burning,
With all that remains:
As my human self succumbs.

The 2MP canvas...