Gandhi and Nachiketa

People have heard of the Mahatma time and again. Most ears have received the man's name with fond respect, although some cannot stop criticizing M. K Gandhi. But not too many people who use the English language to communicate have heard of
Nachiketa,
a boy who walked up to Yama and came back with the knowledge of the "atman". Both these figures from India share the common desire to know oneself- one an old man fighting for freedom, the other a child discovering the grandeur of humanity.


GANDHI:
Son, why do you sit so still?
Hasn’t your mother told stories,
Of princes, and kings, and gods,
Demons battling good to lose?

NACHIKETA:
My ears are thick with stories,
Tales of all those sweet and fragrant,
But all around there is a stink,
Although its fetid reason eludes.

GANDHI:
A child, but burdened you are,
And who said there’s some rot?
Don’t you like the smell of roses,
And the taste of honey suckle,
Which grow in our land’s gardens?

NACHIKETA:
Father, you tease as other men…
They mock my dreary soul,
And send me forth to fetch a game…
Or hunt the restless dragonflies fluttering.

GANDHI:
Come sit by my side, and we shall be men,
You, Nachiketa, the new and I, the old,
We shall talk of all that your heart desires…
And the stench might vanish from air.

NACHIKETA:
And the air shall be clean again?

GANDHI:
Boy, so you have breathed the fresh,
Wind carrying tunes of a myriad countrymen?

NACHIKETA:
I have…but I was a mere flesh then,
A being without much thought,
For now the troubles haunt me…
And in you I see the reflected,
Light that will drive my worries away.


GANDHI:
Like the Asuraas who ran at Vishnu’s sight!

NACHIKETA:
Mahatma, may I sit at your feet, as we speak?

GANDHI:
Why my feet, for your place on my lap.

NACHIKETA:
Then I shall whisper my words…’cause
In creatures of Earth I have no trust to spare.

GANDHI:
So we will begin with trust, and turn towards,
The greater burdens that your mind carries,
I shall be the scarecrow turning black thoughts,
Unto the distant hills, away from our abode.

NACHIKETA:
So be it Father as I wait to hear your words…
Words that heal the wounds inflicted by words

GANDHI:
O Nachiketa trust is a gift from Krisna,
Without it we invite howling grief,
To camp within our very make- and spin,
Cobwebs of dark and failing deceit.
But with trust we succeed to gather,
A handful quantity of peace that remains,
Deep in conscious and fires happiness.

NACHIKETA:
Do you then trust the British?
My father says they’d be cruel,
Men who would lack conscience n’ morals…

GANDHI:
Why shouldn’t I trust the British?
Wasn’t it an Englishman who was,
The cause for birth of revolutions all over –
In Africa, in America, and even in India?
Should I harbor the audacity to dislike,
A people who have given this world countless,
Truths…truths of nature, and truths of mind?


NACHIKETA:
Then why do you wish them to leave?

GANDHI:
So they might realize my truth –
Our collective truth, if I may say so
For which we have been in penance so long…
God had made man in His nature…
And it his nature to live and let live,
Sadly the politics of governance has
Taken away the art of it, forsaken,
Such a truth while harming our people,
Using us as fodder to feed their cows and coffers.

NACHIKETA:
And what say you to those killing the English,
And proclaiming superiority of our people?
Do you despise their efforts? Or, scoff at
The sacrifice they make at the alter?

GANDHI:
Does one have to despise to dislike
All things one disagrees with? Let all
Such thoughts fly away into a clear sky
That can bear seven opinions in a rainbow.

NACHIKETA:
Talking of flying Father, into the Sky
I wonder why can’t I grow wings,
Like the young butterflies and go,
Whence the flowers bloom in sun,
And the rain only adds splendor,
To the stream flowing down rocky paths?

GANDHI:
A butterfly cannot think, it flies,
But you my son, are bound to ground,
In your chains of thought - so am I,
So is every human soul on earth,
And for that we may curse or crave.
Choose you what must you choose,
After all



NACHIKETA:
A man am I then,
and not a butterfly, nor a boy?

GANDHI:
A boy, yes, a man too you are,
And I know your kind are in thinning,
Hiding themselves under blankets,
Of frivolous boyish runabouts –
Reading not the writings on the wall
But fat books of poison that dig a hole
In their imagination, and opens the door
Of wonderland with elf n’ seafarers;
But to be frolicking is your age,
And none should commit the crime,
Of snatching that child from within.

NACHIKETA:
O Mahatma, the sun sinks now,
And mother shall be awaiting my call,
The woman I do not wish to hurt,
For she has suffered much pain on my behalf.

GANDHI:
Their pain is the gift of womanhood…

NACHIKETA:
I must run down the valley now,
And fly like a kite, a post rather,
Fall before my doorstep before,
Father’s return, for his cane I do not miss.

GANDHI:
Go, go, go run wild in meadows…

GANDHI:
Look there - a child goes running,
Scampering through crowded folk,
Will my country, my land have kindness,
To give to him what he has lost -
Freedom, fun and a pair of wings?

A Letter for Maria...

The war was cold,
Like others it was brutal,
There were guns, and machines,
Crushing the very bodies of men,
And then I found relief,
I could go home,
Someone else had volunteered,
The soldier beside me,
Stuffed a letter into my pockets,
“A letter for Maria…” he said.

The jet plane sped home,
White clouds combing my hair,
And stork birds of fairytales,
Carrying babies in baskets,
The name tags flying ‘bout in air,
A dream on the plane…
The actual jingling of my dog- tag,
A man beside me…his eyes closed,
Only momentary…shivered back to life…
Maybe it was a bullet, or a bomb,
That killed his friend, which woke him…
Soldiers never cry…they put stones,
Stones that stop the bleeding heart,
From pumping blood to the wounds,
Of warfare etched deep within,
That no knife can meditate on.

Home at last…a band of smiling faces,
Gay expressions ready to receive,
These are the people I called my friends,
These are souls once I had words for…
But today I have to be silent…
For home is my prayer ground…
In its silence I might pay homage,
To fellow soldiers whose body have turned cold,
As I walk down the jet plane,
I see the coffins, loaded onto a truck,
As if they were a burden…the coffin loader,
Lifting the dead weight without a smile,
Sweat trickling down his forehead,
And his raw muscles bulging with strain…
Seeger had sung about flowers,
And about men at war, but we,
Those who’ve heard its noises,
Only wish for silence- no songs, no music,
No speeches or preaching, letting me,
Know how painful it is- for I know.

A thought strikes my mind,
An image rather, a picture of urgency,
Fighting soldier stuffing two pieces,
Of paper into my pocket…I haven’t
Changed my trousers…I carry the war,
To my home- the letter still tucked in,
The “Letter for Maria.”

Maria, you live by a distant street,
Where the language is not my own,
To your home I take a cab- its $12,
An unfair charge, if you’d ask me…
And there you stand by the window,
I have a letter for you…

The door bell is loud…
It’s a screaming thing that gnaws my heart,
And a man opens your door…
He is young and handsome…no dirt,
No blood, no pain, no sweat, and no wounds,
He is a man…not a thing to be shot at,
Not an object coffined, or carried,
He is alive- but I, and my brothers,
We were dead the moment we took the gun,
And gave our honor to those like you,
That we’d defend, that we’d serve…

I watch you run down the stairs,
He must have loved you…
My friend must have taken many moments,
To fabricate a message for you…
To let you know about his bleeding heart,
And now smile to myself-
Another man’s wife…and he, no man,
But a count, a star, a name on a wall…
Maria, you will never have to visit,
The black walls of wailing and lament,
I won’t hurt you…my hands are cold,
You stare at me…I smile,
And walk away…with treasure in my pockets,
“A letter for Maria.”

A Conversation: Father and Son

Adiratha:

Son, shall I call you so?
For now you know your truth,
That as a charioteer's son,
A great Kshatriya has been raised.

Karna:

"Father" you are Karna's,
Although your blood I have not,
Your love flows in me,
Like the river that carried,
A lost boy to his father's feet.

Adiratha:

Karna, then will you not heed,
Your mother's fear, for your life,
Is all my wife has left in hand,
And such a battle might steal,
Her child away from her,
And leave her maternal cradle empty.

Karna:

Father you ask me do the impossible,
A charioteer must ride into death,
Witout praise or glory, he doesn't,
Leave his master's side, and I, I,
Karna son of a Charioteer, a man,
Of much misfortune have been,
Given the love of a mighty warrior,
Should I leave Duryodhana's camp,
When the man needs me most- would you?

Adiratha:

Nay!

Karna:

Why do you smile so, father?

Adiratha:

Witness the crimson sky- your heavenly father,
In the heaven arises, he rides fire horses,
Across the span of this entire Earth,
I smile at my fortune- to raise,
His blood as my own- a lowly charioteer,
Has become a proud father today,
For under my teaching you have,
Not become base like the rest...

Karna:

Father to your might I bow my head.

Adiratha:

Karna- you know your end do you?

Karna:

Yes...my death is certain, let that,
Not be told to my friends resting,
Let them enjoy music and wine tonight,
For tomorrow much sorrow must they face,
Let the brave men leave this earth,
Without fear, and filled with mirth,
To meet their foe in battle.

Adiratha:

And Lord Krishna told you of your demise?

Karna:

The Lord is graceful- and did not hurt me,
With such a bitter truth, his tone was kind,
A delicate note of mirth and sorrow-
No, Lord Krishna does not need tell me,
I know for that must be my end-
The Lord drives the chariot of the victorious,
For the victory of the Pandavas,
Kunti's first born must lay down his body,
But father, fear not, for this body,
Is not much more than a vessel of deed,
I shall have fulfilled my dharma at battle,
And ride unto heaven beside the sun-

Adiratha:

And how do you know of Krishna's divinity?

Karna:

Father, don't you realize God's game-

Karna:

Only three humans knew of my truth,
You, Mother Radha, and Mother Kunti,
Not even I! But another stepped forward,
To tell me my birth father's and mother's name-
Only God could have known that,
And Krishna only adviced me, never did,
The Lord spread his palms before me,
And ask for the life of his "partha",
For he knows my end- he is the author,
Of my fate- and it shall be as he desires,
Karna shall be vanquished at battle,
And Arjuna shall be crowned the winner,
Kunti who had five sons will have them all,
But you, two humans who have natural son,
Shall have to give me away...to the wishes,
Of Lord Krishna, the Lord who governs,
And gave me to you in the first place-

Adiratha:

Cruel this world has been on you!
Like snakes has fate hissed and struck,
You time and again- why? Why must my son,
Be treated in such ill a manner?

Karna:

O Adhiratha!
Your son is Karna-
Fate hisses at him-
For it must keep him from victory.
But remember, your son,
Shall be the only son of Kunti,
Who shall find the grace of God,
Without questioning...the others,
Have sinned in vanity, and lived,
In that empty heat without realization,
But Karna has learnt his little stature,
Despite mastering the art of war.

Adiratha:

Your father shines bright with pride!

Karna:

Yes father, your face shines,
Like the very sun in the sky.