Here birds don’t sing

Why are you in pain? My Mahabharata

Writing through the days and nights?

Hundreds of sordid tales within are written

And here no birds sing.

I am writing the Epic

Riding on it

I am the dictator and the writer

All other bards, without words.

You are looking pale

But I see a crown in your head

You are the King

But birds here refuse to sing.

Is this the story you wanted to write

For the lady you met

You saw her seated in a hammock

With a white flower tied in her crown, her face red.

You made a garland for her

She looked like a child

Her feet were light, her hair was long

You saw the smile when her eyes cried.

You did not pay enough attention

To the starving hands when they were serving you

To the yearning lips when she was nursing with them

She was happy beside you, engaged with crazy things to do.

We betrayed this lady, all humankind failed her

Here birds don’t sing in this forsaken shelter

With stories of horror, hatred, treachery, terror

I am in pain

Condemned to re-write the epic, rhyme with it, year after year.