Sanctuary

 On his deathbed, Madan pined alone –

The fever rans brooks over his body

While he waited ruefully

For the curtains to close.

Not alone, exactly

The village urchins laughed outside,

Throwing stones at his windows

Rejoicing the end of greed

 

Madan admitted even in his delirium

He was a selfish man,

Who cared for no human soul but gold

And greed that bought him everything

Even now, he could buy sanjeevani

With his stacks of gold

But he was no Rama,

Why would Anjaneya be anywhere close?

 

And so Madan sobbed pearls wistfully

Darkness enclosing him except…

Except…

For that circle of light

Increasing, increasing, now irradiating

Every inch of whatever

It was that he could see –

Gold even now - but covering the pale-blue One

 

Is it time, O lord?

I have nothing to justify

All the deeds of my life

I wilfully accept all that you have for me

And Madan gave in, no protests

Salvation was not for his kind

He would now have manacles of gold

In the embers of Patal-lok

 

Yes Madan, the voice boomed

I have come to steal thy suffering

Thy pains, thy illness shall all be healed

By Dhanantari’s grace, I bless thee

Madan never felt this light before

As if the searing pains were lifted all

His breath, lighter than a butterfly’s flutter

Made his as happy as he was perplexed

 

Are you healing me Lord?

The blue and yellow diffused as he could hear Him smile

But why, my Lord,

Why do you shame me thus?

His blue eyes conveyed in silence

Shame you Madan? Why do you even ask this?

You have offered me sanctuary so many times

In rain and storm, why can’t I repay you?

 

Madan, stunned with the words

Wanted to ask why –

The cosmic consciousness within and without

Spoke not a word, but Madan heard

The soft coo of a summer’s dove

Sheltering in the bamboo roof of his house

In many a nor’wester cloud

And many a winter’s hail

The silence in him spoke again

Madan, there is more to this chapter

Beyond the Leela you had thought of

For His story comes in unexpected words

The epilogue is sometimes just the start

The inking reed sometimes smoothens itself

As it understands the creases

Of a palm-leaf script

 

Madan woke up from his perspiring sleep

But more than sweat were tears,

Tears of abashedness - that He chose

The avatar of a cooing bird

To surpass his lifetime of a human soul.

And he got up, fresh, a changed heart

With the will to write newfound, unexpected words

 In the song of a summer’s bird…

 

26^th July’ 2024