Krishna, to Draupadi

how long it has been since you last called me
the two or three times you did required no great valor
from between embarrassed timidity and arrogant cowardice
just an ordinary courage and the desire to be near you

and every time as I returned I knew that all you said to me
would be debased by people calling it a prayer a plea
you, the pious wife of five warrior husbands
I, the louche lover of countless gopis and queens
and the hero of countless stories that speak of Radha’s rapturous love
the very mention of which would later unsettle and annoy me
but who would believe that there was always something about you
so that when we were left alone in the palace
in full understanding of our mutual intent
we would not even desire each other’s touch
and as I would return in silence
on the long road from Indraprasth to Dwarka
it was not the chariot’s rattle
but the echo of your voice the light of your eyes
and my charioteer vexed from turning back again and again

and then I saw before my very eyes
your kin and mine the people we loved dying
I saw you returning to camp tending to your wounded husbands
all this as I was speaking to Arjun
and watching Kripacharya succeed
both Kauravs and Pandavs must have been baffled by my smile
but I could see your eyes over all of Kurukshetra
and it was because of them that I came to live
in Dwarka, far away from friends

it is my moment now
fulfilling every prophecy every curse every ill omen
my charioteer, always vexed, has gone
and I sit waiting for that imprudent hunter
to mistake my foot for the head of a deer
my queens whose names I cannot even properly recall
who are now well past their youth
I have left to Arjun
my aging friend your now feeble husband
the impatient sea keeps turning back from Dwarka’s shore
I have no message for you but when
were messages ever necessary between us
yes, I see your husbands setting out with you in tow
and that you will be the first to fall, you will be left behind
in their well-meaning pride these descendants of Kuru
have seldom turned to look at truth
then, leaving your body, you will say Krishna and find
that I am as close to you as I always was
we will walk together watching your husbands fall one by one
and listen to the familiar pietism of your eldest husband’s words
seeing their last sublime presumption you will look at me
and I will smile remembering suddenly, neither you nor I will know why
my long forgotten flute and Radha
drawn to its music

Hope

if I had been born in the romantic age
of European classical music and if I had feudal riches
I would call Beethoven, Haydn or Mozart and ask
how much will you take
to write a new piece
which shall, of course, have a full orchestra
but space too for a piano solo
one female and one male voice
and a chorus
with men women and children at once

they would say
it is not a question of wages
but your request is absurd
it violates all rules of composition
a symphony has no solos
vocals have never been heard of in concertos
an opera can have a chorus and all sorts of singers
but where will we fit
a piano or any other solo in it

I would reply
why else would I trouble great composers like you
when I hear your symphonies
I miss the piano and solo singers
or suddenly while hearing a concerto
I start hearing many voices together or separately
and did you never feel
how much better it would be
if the aria in an opera was not accompanied by a symphony
but by a single piano violin or oboe
playing softly

what you will call such a composition
I leave up to you
our language does not lack in musical vocabulary
so can you compose such a piece?

they would look at me and at each other
and would not let their expressions betray what they thought of me
you will have to excuse us they would say and leave
from distant corridors Beethoven’s curses
and Haydn and Mozart’s laughter would echo

surprised and appalled by the prejudices of great artists
ignorant of technique but somewhat familiar
with the endless variety and scope of music and notes
and dedicated to them
I would then create in my heart and listen
to a composition of words and sounds in the hope
that perhaps one day someone would really create it
and give it a name

The Missing

in the Shradra up-parv of the Mahabharat’s Stree-parv
there are two shloks that hold special interest
for scholars interested in obscure figures –
the second of these is more intriguing

after the war when Dhritrashtra asks Yudhishthir
how many died in the great war and how many lived
it is a sign of pure scientific curiosity
despite the near total destruction of clan and civilization

and Yudhishthir’s answer too
is an unprecedented example
of receiving and remembering facts
objectively amidst the horrors of war

when he says in this war o king of kings
one billion six hundred million and twenty thousand warriors have died
there is a precision to his answer
from the billion right down to the thousand
that gives it rare authority
even further, in the second shlok
when he says the number of soldiers missing after the war
is twenty four thousand one hundred and sixty five
it is probably the first time in human history
that missing soldiers are mentioned
and such a precise number not only seems authentic
it vexes us and makes us curious

it vexes us because he does not ask
how many of these missing are Pandavs
how many Kauravs
how many maharathis, athirathis, ekrathis and others
and throws no light
on which kingdom they belonged to, which legion
in the rest of the Mahabharat one never finds out
if any attempts were made
to find these missing and absconding soldiers

today we want to know
where these 24,165 went
where did they hide or what happened to them when they returned
had they run off in fear or in frustration
were they disillusioned or distressed
or did their platoons keep fighting for years
among themselves a number of little Mahabharats
even when the mother of these battles was long over

the missing of Kurukshetra are still missing
they probably did not think it right to fight and go to heaven
they embraced life, it is just as well
because the Mahabharat is also silent
about the names and the families
of the one billion six hundred million and twenty thousand
who did go to heaven

who carries the seed and ideas
of those unaccounted for
who can say
and is there an estimate
of what they contributed to what civilization
and the contributions of those who lived
because they did not fight

who knows whether some or all of them
individually or together
wrote their own Mahabharats partial or complete
who knows whether some of them
defeated Arjun as he was returning with his queens
because the Mahabharat as we have it
is one-sided despite its greatness
or two-sided at best
and if not Balram or the people of Dwarka
at least one of these 24,165
should have left behind their version

but to find a place in history
it is almost essential to be found alive or dead
the missing are never mentioned
a single shlok by one of them if found
can cast doubt over
Sanjay’s official accepted and convenient
eyewitness account
who knows one of us might be their descendant
and say that single shlok someday

Score Book

my two greatest moments in cricket do not appear
in any book of statistics or records

who takes a Sunday match among
middle-school boys seriously
teams of less than eleven
bats old new too big too small bound with tape
a leather ball made by the cobbler at Town Hall
stumps uneven and at only one end
no question of half-matting
we had never even seen much less touched a score book
score was kept on the last pages of a rough notebook

nevertheless a hat-trick is a hat-trick
at least for the one who got it
even if it was in the conditions described above
forty-one years later and for life
what happened that evening at four o’ clock
how three successive balls landed on the same spot
off-breaked in the same way and how
Ramesh Surendra and Madan were clean bowled (clean bowled!)
one after another in the same way
Ramesh was our Tendulkar
what do thirteen year olds know of playing of batting and bowling
but that day a god must have been watching out for me
over that corner of the school grounds
now buried forever under the new building
as if someone had complained

the other historic moment was at a college tournament when
after getting out for a duck on a full-toss in a very unhistoric way –
because of which already my stock was beginning to fall
among my doubting friends and the spectators from school in the pavilion
to the extent of possibly losing my place in the side –
I suddenly took three catches of Burhanpur’s team
the first at cover-point the second at mid-on the third at short square-leg
of these the first was possibly Jayprakash Choksey and was not easy
I can’t say how I ended up catching three
someone whose place in the side has become insecure
finds everything on the ground difficult seems perplexed
more so when he takes a brilliant catch
and his friends start laughing in disbelief
even those who weren’t won over after the third
were amazed
and that was how my place in the team was cemented
(how I got the captaincy – fast becoming a dubious distinction – is another story)

a whole philosophy has come up around sports
in which sportsmanship team-work friendly rivalry
you win some you lose some and more such misconceptions are included
but who will explain to me my hat-trick and those three tumbling catches
and even more
why these petty successes get recorded
in some score book

Single Wicket Series

I have just taken guard once more
made sure my shoes gloves helmet are secure
evened out the pitch with my bat
a little confident a little nervous
I have been beaten a couple of times now
but I’m waiting for the next ball

thousands of lights from four towers illuminate the stadium
giving everything on the ground four shadows
and I in the center of my four-shadowed crosshairs
the fifth
strange silence in the galleries
is everyone holding their breath at this moment

and then he appears at the other end
fast as a horse-rider yet almost moon-walking
a cape fluttering behind his black costume
he hurls the ball with a toss of the head
his claw revealed for a moment
the lines of his jaw and temple becoming clear
his eyes are sunken and appear like black holes
his teeth shine who is he I have never played him but
it seems as if I have seen him before

my feet have turned to lead
my bat to stone
my heart and hand to ice my lips cracking
and I hear behind my legs and on my chest that familiar sound
as if a gust of wind opening the door to a lab
rattles the skeleton on the wall

who turned off the lights suddenly
why have the spectators gone dumb
is it just the sound of wind in the stadium
how have I come out of my petrified paralysis
as if released from all encumbrances
and in his unbound momentum he has come right up to me
I feel on my shoulder
his encouraging but strong insistent hold

then still in the darkness finally recognizing his black shape I say
well bowled sir
the pitch the ground the unlit lights the dark stadium
everything seems to be going down
and he keeps throwing the ball into my hands and I back to him
till we disappear
to play some solitary game in some other place…