The Valiant Maharana Pratap Singh (Rajasthan)
Never he was a vassal to the Moghul,
Who led a Turkish mob to plunder
And annexe the Princely States of Bharat.
'God alone is my suzerain and not a Turk',
He thundered and kept his word till his end.
His gallant steed Chetak matched his prowess
And vied for glory with his master Rana.
When the subdued kings lost their queens
or wedded to the Sultan their daughters,
Rana Pratap, Mewar's Rajput Chief
Proved a lion to show the pride of his race,
By bowing not his head to Delhi.
Those who bent their knees at the Court of Moghuls
Couldn't sit, chat and dine with him.
This insult rankled in the mind of Man Singh
Who led the army of Akbar, The Great,
And he hinted for a war with Delhi.
Missions sent to bend Rana's heart
Failed to make any dent, and crumbled.
Hakim Khan Sur, though a Pathan
Fought at front for Rana's army.
He had no myopic spell of religion.
He liked Rana, who treated the women
of the vanquished foe with reverence
And stood high in morals among the kings.
The randy Turks never learnt the laws of war.
They were nefarious and lawless mobs from afar.
Sur laid his life for the sake of Rana
On the first day of war at Haldighati.
The brave Bhils stood by the marvellous Rana
And Haldighati amidst Auroville hills
Turned to red with blood and saffron-turbaned heads.
Guerrilla warfare, so Rana chose
To save his men with swords and bows from guns.
Akbar's forces couldn't single out Pratap
To capture him alive or dead.
Breaking all the cordons, Pratap advanced
To strike at Man Singh seated on his elephant.
Chetak hopped aloft and Pratap hurled his spear
At the shameless lieutenant of Delhi.
But Man Singh escaped while his mahout fell dead.
And in the fiery fight, Pratap got trapped.
Man Singh's faeryderm swung a sword from it's trunk
And Chetak got a lethal cut at it's leg.
A deadly blow also fell on Rana.
Jhala Man, the wondrous Chief of Rana
Snatched the royal emblem from Rana's head
And bore the brunt of attack on his King.
His Chieftains tried hard to whisk Rana off
And he sallied out with his injured horse.
Jhala Man was mistaken for Rana,
And the hostile men surrounded him and killed.
Rana beat a retreat into the hills,
But two Moghuls pursued him for his head
For them to be awarded with royal gifts.
Crossing a rivulet Chetak neighed and fell,
The first time in his life to feel remorse
And breathed his last on Rana's lap.
Rana took the saddle off his Chetak
And shed a Master's tears on his closing eyes.
An estranged brother of Rana Pratap,
Serving under the imperial Akbar,
Chased the blood thirsty Mughuls,
severed their heads and saved his brother,
Whom the people adored as the hero.
He pleaded with Rana to mount on his horse
And hurry into the Ghatti hills deep and dense,
Where the Mughuls dared not to enter,
As the Bhills under Panja would spray stones
From the hide-outs, Nature shaped in those hills.
The loss of all his ferocious fighters
In sanguinary battles fought often,
Made Rana grievous, and he exiled himself
Into the desert, with remaining men.
He had a wise Minister to salvage
And urge him again to wield the sword
Against Delhi dreaming to swallow Bharat.
Bhama Shah, his boundless wealth to Rana gave
And the lion of Mewar defied again
And rallied his men to regain his fort.
Akbar ceased from futile wars with Rana
And turned his ire to the West of North.
Rana ruled in peace to the ease of all.
A cut on his leg put Rana on his bed.
In his nebulous vision, he saw his horse
And his soul bade bye on being pledged
That his Mewar would not bow to Delhi
And flew up mounting on his Chetak.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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The Poet's Fate
by Mohan Rana
Were this light even whiter
you and I would be invisible
we each would live our invisible pain
never knowing
the absence of joy
Stunned by that void
into which shadows vanish
forms dissolve
falling, we would imagine flying
without a sky
Only sounds
reach the surviving memory
no need for introductions
The poet's fate
poetry's fate
together
just a breath
[The literal translation of this poem was made by Lucy Rosenstein
The final translated version of the poem is by The Poetry Translation Workshop]
poem by Mohan Rana
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Your Slander Is Sweet
Rana, to me your slander is sweet.
Some praise me, some blame me. I
go the other way.
On the narrow path, I found God’s
people. What should I turn back for?
I am learning wisdom among the
wise, and the wicked look at me
with malice.
Mira’s Lord is Giridhar Nagar.
Let the wicked burn in the kitchen fire.
Mira’s God is the lifter of mountains.
I don’t like your strange world, Rana,
A world where there are no holy men,
and all the people are trash.
I have given up ornaments, given up
braiding my hair.
I have given up putting on kajal
(collyrium), and putting my hair up.
Mira’s Lord is Giridhar Nagar; I have
found a perfect bridegroom.
Mine is the Lifter of Mountains
Mine is the lifter of mountains, the
cowherd, and none other.
O sadhus! there is no other--I have seen
the whole world.
I left brothers, I left kindred, I left
all I had.
Sitting near the sadhus, I lost worldly shame.
I looked at the devotees and I was one with
them; I looked at the world and wept.
With tears I watered love’s creeper
and it took root.
I churned the milk, drew out the ghee
and threw away the whey.
Rana sent a cup of poison; I drank it
and stayed ecstatic.
Mira’s attachment is strong--what was to
happen has happened.
O friend, I cannot live without the
delightgiver.
Mother-in-law fights, my sister-in-law
teases,
The Rana remains angry.
They have a watchman sitting at the door,
and a lock fastened on it.
Why should I give up my first love,
the love of my former life?
None else pleases me.
(Meera) The Marriage Talk
Meera reached the proper age,
That proposed her marriage.
Her mother was worried,
It was time, she be married.
But Meera was unconcerned,
Since she herself had married
Krishna, her dream husband.
So, she wasn’t at all worried.
They sent messengers
To other Rajput kings
With their royal message,
Proposing Meera’s marriage.
None came forward
To take her hand,
But the King of Mewar
Was willing to marry her.
Kumbha Rana was his name.
To marry her, he came.
Meera was quite upset,
And first didn’t accept.
“I can’t break our tradition
By accepting another one,
Already when I’m married
To Krishna, my husband.”
Her mother cried and said,
“My life I would have laid
With your father in the pyre,
You know, why I’m here.”
“Because of you I’m alive.
If today your father is alive,
He would’ve had it done
To our utmost satisfaction.”
“What’s not possible now,
After it you run how?
Of what’s possible,
Why can’t you now avail? ”
”Our Rajput tradition says
A grown up girl, who marries
Should serve her husband,
And die with her husband.”
Meera gave deaf ears.
She cried and shed tears.
They came to the conclusion
That Meera had gone sick then.
Doctors came to check
But they went back
Without giving any treatment,
Not knowing her ailment.
Meera’s eyes became red
As she cried and cried.
Her mother was upset
O’er her pitiable sight.
Till the last moment
Poor Meera did expect
Krishna would save her
But He disappointed her.
Here and there people walked.
About the marriage they talked.
Kumbha Rana arrived in the scene.
It was her marriage day one.
As a bride, Meera was decorated.
In Rajput style, she was dressed.
But Meera was in tears.
Her face showed fears.
Her mother said, “Meera, listen
It’s our prestige, not a fun,
Our two kingdoms, it’ll strengthen.
Rajput clan will glow and shine.”
“A mother is the first Goddess.
Next only your Krishna comes.
I’m your mother saying this.
Be bold, happy and wise.”
Meera replied, “Yes, mother
Now I obey your order
As your way is Krishna’s way.
Your word is His word this day.”
She spoke no more words.
She stepped on the dais
To hold the second hand
And accept her new husband.
poem by Rajaram Ramachandran
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Evil is YOU!
Everyone says,
I’m evil because I beat my sister,
I’m evil because I took drugs,
I’m evil because I went to prison,
I’m evil because I cheated,
Well Guess what!
You’re not evil,
So chill,
You’re the core of evil,
You represent every part of evil,
And…..,
So is your dark side,
Your devil!
poem by Rana Malas
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Mira Danced with Ankle Bells
Mira danced with ankle-bells on her feet.
People said Mira was mad; my mother-in-law
said I ruined the family reputation.
Rana sent me a cup of poison and Mira
drank it laughing.
I dedicated my body and soul at the feet of Hari.
I am thirsty for the nectar of the sight of him.
Mira’s lord is Giridhar Nagar; I will
come for refuge to him.
Dance of fate
Every step I'll take
Every move you'll make
A step
In sync
One is forward
One is backwards
A lonely dance
With only us two
We are not lonely
but we are alone
A dance filled with bitter sweet misery
If a step is wrong
We fall
We follow a pattern unknwon to us
As pride we left
As love we seek
And as we fail
Another step is taken
As I dance with death
In this dance of fate
Soldiers Of The Kargil War
You trek through the snow-clad vales with guns,
knowing well you march ahead into traps of death,
forgetting yourselves, your kith and kin,
to face the fierce foes religion-eaten
and kill them and be killed or lynched.
You bury the corpse of those fanatics
doing the rites their parents need to do,
as you are from a humane race.
But when we receive your flag-draped coffins,
seeing your mangled bodies
we vent our spleen in flowing tears.
The Tololing peak and the Tiger Hill
speak volumes of your valiant deeds.
But not even a bit of land we have
will ope its lips of our cowardly life.
The wealth we heaped and the life we reaped
will go to waste as the wheel turns..
Our morbid blood is not fit to spill
even on the dells around our hamlets.
The blood you shed on harsh terrains
flows through the land of Maha Rana
and the marvellous warrior Shivaji
and give harvests of sacrificial grains
and make our children fell and brave.
Let the books of History be filled
with the thrills of your facing bullets.
We’re fed up with the tales of cruel looters.
The future rulers of our land are your kids.
Those hurt in wars will sit in offices,
and those unhurt will man the police stations
and in schools you will inspire the young
to roam around the hills where our soldiers fell.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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History Of Nature
When earth was just an infant,
There came an instant,
When God gave all creatures a call,
To bestow pure nature on them all.
He said, my children,
Now this earth is your home,
And my special creation which is nature,
I appoint it as your caretaker,
You will be safe in its hands,
For that I am sure,
In return you will protect it
That you have to ensure.
They all promised to do so,
And were very happy,
God too always saved them
When nature got angry.
But soon a new creature joined them,
Who could walk on two legs,
It was known as human
And he turned nature into a mess.
It gave birth to fire,
And rapidly grew
It killed beautiful creations
Dinosaurs too
Soon earth was his prisoner,
And destruction was everywhere
All other God’s creations
Prayed, he leaves nature spare.
The deserts are expanding
Arctic ice is melting
Global warming is the truth
We fear man will have to pay by his tooth
God listened to this call
And responded to them all
Do not fear not all is lost
Start mending sincerely and you will rise above this fall
poem by Aprajita Rana
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The Mirror And The Reflection
I look into a mirror, who is it that I see?
This person cannot be me, can she?
Her smile scares me
The person she is
Is not the person I am
What is in her eyes
Is grief
Hatred
No emotions that is happy
What happened with the girl infront of me?
What made her so sad?
She smiles again
That sends shivers down my spine
Her tears make me cry
She falls and me not long after
We cry
There is just grief
Nothing can make us stop crying
Oh dear god
I look at my hands
The tears won't stop falling
Why is it that I am crying?
I am not that girl
I am not sad
I look up to the mirror
Maybe another sight will stand there
The mirror falls
Soon there is not just tears in my hand
There is also blood
Blood that stained from my heart
And as I realize, That girl was indeed me
The one I will be come
The one with a broken heart
The one with a dying fate
But that I already knew
And as I lie there
The reflection on the shattered mirror
Laughs with a sad pain in her voice
The Arrogant Frog And The Superior Bull
Once, on a time and in a place
Conducive to malaria,
There lived a member of the race
Of
Rana Temporaria
;
Or, more concisely still, a frog
Inhabited a certain bog.
A bull of Brobdingnagian size,
Too proud for condescension,
One morning chanced to cast his eyes
Upon the frog I mention;
And, being to the manner born,
Surveyed him with a lofty scorn.
Perceiving this, the bactrian's frame
With anger was inflated,
Till, growing larger, he became
Egregiously elated;
For inspiration's sudden spell
Had pointed out a way to swell.
'Ha! ha!' he proudly cried, 'a fig
For this, your mammoth torso!
Just watch me while I grow as big
As you-or even more so!'
To which magniloquential gush
His bullship simply answered 'Tush!'
Alas! the frog's success was slight,
Which really was a wonder,
In view of how with main and might
He strove to grow rotunder!
And, standing patiently the while,
The bull displayed a quiet smile.
But ah, the frog tried once too oft
And, doing so, he busted;
Whereat the bull discreetly coughed
And moved away, disgusted,
As well he might, considering
The wretched taste that marked the thing.
THE MORAL: Everybody knows
How ill a wind it is that blows.
poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl
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Wedding Wishes 2
Nurturing your love through all kinds of weather
Building a bridge of bond to be forever together
Paving the path of future with loyalty to each other
As two hearts and two souls shining as one with shimmer
Float on the waves of ocean of life forever and more
Making the surfs of trust to the depths of its core
Becoming as one like flower and its fragrance
Painting new colors everyday into your romance
Keeping the glitter on your wedding rings
Serenading to each other as your heart sings
Stirring the strings of your souls with symphony
Living your life listening to music of harmony
Fly on the wings of faith to the very end
Wrapping each other with devotion in every bend
Soaking the warmth of affection with loyalty
Painting new colors in world of fidelity
Wishing you both the treasure of loving sentiments
Sailing on waves of joy with lasting commitment
Wishing you both rewards of your true love
Empowered by the divine forces from above
This poem was written on the occasion of my friends Rana and payal wedding
poem by Mittur Ramprasad
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From Rana to Rani
My Rani say we two should play upon shared lily pad,
with well webbed nails, fly dinner pails, nought fails to make us glad.
While night and day I’ll Rana play hip hop with tadpoles young,
air debonnaire while you croak fair, stick insects with slick tongue,
I always may your roundelay repeat in pond competing
I’ll never stray from your side, stay, win fond completing
In stream or lake fair pair we’ll make, a baritonal greeting
loves thirst shall slake and keep awake the countryside, minds meeting.
Each day I’ll log on life’s frog blog, on log or nenuphar,
When you are far, on shooting star, I wish to pool our power,
and splash in spa, in stream and tarn, flash through love’s cinema,
spend every hour in misty shower, with you true bliss none mar.
My Rani, pray, please name the day we two on lily pad
may sultry air share free from care, our offspring never sad,
let bells be rung, your praise be sung, the marshy reeds among, -
be welcome, come, together strum as here my tale’s well hung.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Fire Feared not the Queen!
The Rajput Ratan singh came to the throne
of Chittorgarh, the chivalrous land,
when Khilji, having all the Northern kings won,
turned to West, to put his foes to the brand.
The Turks made a blockade of the fort
to catch Padmini, the marvelous Mewar’s queen,
and take to Khilji’s harem, and to distort
the pride of Rajputs who in war weren’t mean.
By war, the besieging Sultan found no end;
“A glance will turn me to Delhi”, he cried.
To cease the fight, the wise chose to lend
her image, arranging her mien to hide.
On a scaffold amidst a lake
the queen of the martial race was to stand
and the mad Turk from a mirror had to take
the flashed figure of the nymph made by God’s wand.
In killing and blinding his kin Khilji revelled.
He would seize the wives of vanquished kings
and poison his marshals, who his place levelled.
He marred the idols in temples and pulled the strings.
To avoid bloodshed, Ratan agreed to show
a virtual image of the queen to his guest.
But the beard-caressing thief got in to mow,
the image elegant to give his mind rest.
A scoundrel’s hunger is never appeased.
But within the fort his sword never he drew.
The image fair his blazing heart teased.
When the host came out, engulfed him the vile crew.
Ratan got confined in the camp of the tribes
which fought for zan(money) , zenana(women) , zamin(land) and gold.
Khilji lolled his tongue not for precious bribes
but for Padmini, the queen chaste and bold.
The wise queen sent the Sultan, the news to meet
and the bestial Khilji smiled and braced his beard.
But fighters in the guise of maids to beat
the Turk, went in palanquins, with valour weird.
Her uncle Gora ran the blockade and safely freed
the king and fought to his grave with mad dogs.
The frothy beast stormed the fort again with greed
with an added force of looting savage hogs.
The saffron turbaned Rajputs wielded their swords
But their wrath to wreak vengeance went in vain.
And Rani braved Jouhar(The Pyre) in cries of brave words.
Her bewitching frame Khilji’s leer had no gain.
Chaste women with charm and valour stand apart
Whom the brutes base and vile can’t touch.
All the victories Khilji got fell short
before her victory over fire so much.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Unassailable Fidelity!
The horse never slept
Nor it lay on ground
His mind was battling
With the songs of swords
The challenges of the riders
The splash of blood
The pool of blood
The horse kicked
The horse of the enemy
Eager to cut the throat
Of his master on him
The horse trampled on
The dead on the battlefield
To take his master to safety
When the hissing sound of sword
Lashed at him like a storm.
The horse learnt the rule
The rule of sword
The rule of battlefield
The justice of killing
And the destiny of killed!
His master on him swing
With the sword socked with blood
Of the enemy cavalry
And enemy animal carriers
And moved fast to fix
The mast and flag
At the fort his master seized.
As the thunder and lightening
Deafened and blinded
The horse lost a leg
And the master had the wound
Gushing blood with all force
The horse leapt as a wind
And crossed the river
And fell on the river bed
And his master took his head
To put on his lap
To see the flash of life
Taking wings through eyes!
The horse had the satiety
Of saving his master
And serving him to keep alive!
poem by Vadakkumpurath Ramesan
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A Ballad of John Nicholson
It fell in the year of Mutiny,
At darkest of the night,
John Nicholson by Jalándhar came,
On his way to Delhi fight.
And as he by Jalándhar came,
He thought what he must do,
And he sent to the Rajah fair greeting,
To try if he were true.
"God grant your Highness length of days,
And friends when need shall be;
And I pray you send your Captains hither,
That they may speak with me."
On the morrow through Jalándhar town
The Captains rode in state;
They came to the house of John Nicholson,
And stood before the gate.
The chief of them was Mehtab Singh,
He was both proud and sly;
His turban gleamed with rubies red,
He held his chin full high.
He marked his fellows how they put
Their shoes from off their feet;
"Now wherefore make ye such ado
These fallen lords to greet?
"They have ruled us for a hundred years,
In truth I know not how,
But though they be fain of mastery
They dare not claim it now."
Right haughtily before them all
The durbar hall he trod,
With rubies red his turban gleamed,
His feet with pride were shod.
They had not been an hour together,
A scanty hour or so,
When Mehtab Singh rose in his place
And turned about to go.
Then swiftly came John Nicholson
Between the door and him,
With anger smouldering in his eyes,
That made the rubies dim.
"You are over-hasty, Mehtab Singh," --
Oh, but his voice was low!
He held his wrath with a curb of iron
That furrowed cheek and brow.
"You are over-hasty, Mehtab Singh,
When that the rest are gone,
I have a word that may not wait
To speak with you alone."
The Captains passed in silence forth
And stood the door behind;
To go before the game was played
Be sure they had no mind.
But there within John Nicholson
Turned him on Mehtab Singh,
"So long as the soul is in my body
You shall not do this thing.
"Have ye served us for a hundred years
And yet ye know not why?
We brook no doubt of our mastery,
We rule until we die.
"Were I the one last Englishman
Drawing the breath of life,
And you the master-rebel of all
That stir this land to strife --
"Were I," he said, "but a Corporal,
And you a Rajput King,
So long as the soul was in my body
You should not do this thing.
"Take off, take off, those shoes of pride,
Carry them whence they came;
Your Captains saw your insolence,
And they shall see your shame."
When Mehtab Singh came to the door
His shoes they burned his hand,
For there in long and silent lines
He saw the Captains stand.
When Mehtab Singh rode from the gate
His chin was on his breast:
The captains said, "When the strong command
Obedience is best."
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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Rain Rain Rain
Rain, Rain, Rain, come again and again,
In the winter, in the summer and in spring,
Come with joy, fall with happiness and go with sorrow,
Rain, Rain, Rain come again and again.
Rain, Rain, Rain come to relive earth's pain,
Rain, Rain, Rain come to make nature happy,
Rain, Rain, Rain come to make livings happy,
Rain, Rain, Rain come again and again.
Rain, Rain, Rain don't go away,
Rain, Rain, Rain i hope you will stay,
Rain, Rain, Rain come again and again.
poem by Vikram Pratap Singh
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With Scindia To Delhi
More than a hundred years ago, in a great battle fought near Delhi,
an Indian Prince rode fifty miles after the day was lost
with a beggar-girl, who had loved him and followed him in all his camps,
on his saddle-bow. He lost the girl when almost within sight of safety.
A Maratta trooper tells the story: --
The wreath of banquet overnight lay withered on the neck,
Our hands and scarfs were saffron-dyed for signal of despair,
When we went forth to Paniput to battle with the ~Mlech~, --
Ere we came back from Paniput and left a kingdom there.
Thrice thirty thousand men were we to force the Jumna fords --
The hawk-winged horse of Damajee, mailed squadrons of the Bhao,
Stark levies of the southern hills, the Deccan's sharpest swords,
And he the harlot's traitor son the goatherd Mulhar Rao!
Thrice thirty thousand men were we before the mists had cleared,
The low white mists of morning heard the war-conch scream and bray;
We called upon Bhowani and we gripped them by the beard,
We rolled upon them like a flood and washed their ranks away.
The children of the hills of Khost before our lances ran,
We drove the black Rohillas back as cattle to the pen;
'Twas then we needed Mulhar Rao to end what we began,
A thousand men had saved the charge; he fled the field with ten!
There was no room to clear a sword -- no power to strike a blow,
For foot to foot, ay, breast to breast, the battle held us fast --
Save where the naked hill-men ran, and stabbing from below
Brought down the horse and rider and we trampled them and passed.
To left the roar of musketry rang like a falling flood --
To right the sunshine rippled red from redder lance and blade --
Above the dark ~Upsaras~* flew, beneath us plashed the blood,
And, bellying black against the dust, the Bhagwa Jhanda swayed.
* The Choosers of the Slain.
I saw it fall in smoke and fire, the banner of the Bhao;
I heard a voice across the press of one who called in vain: --
"Ho! Anand Rao Nimbalkhur, ride! Get aid of Mulhar Rao!
Go shame his squadrons into fight -- the Bhao -- the Bhao is slain!"
Thereat, as when a sand-bar breaks in clotted spume and spray --
When rain of later autumn sweeps the Jumna water-head,
Before their charge from flank to flank our riven ranks gave way;
But of the waters of that flood the Jumna fords ran red.
I held by Scindia, my lord, as close as man might hold;
A Soobah of the Deccan asks no aid to guard his life;
But Holkar's Horse were flying, and our chiefest chiefs were cold,
And like a flame among us leapt the long lean Northern knife.
I held by Scindia -- my lance from butt to tuft was dyed,
The froth of battle bossed the shield and roped the bridle-chain --
What time beneath our horses' feet a maiden rose and cried,
And clung to Scindia, and I turned a sword-cut from the twain.
(He set a spell upon the maid in woodlands long ago,
A hunter by the Tapti banks she gave him water there:
He turned her heart to water, and she followed to her woe.
What need had he of Lalun who had twenty maids as fair?)
Now in that hour strength left my lord; he wrenched his mare aside;
He bound the girl behind him and we slashed and struggled free.
Across the reeling wreck of strife we rode as shadows ride
From Paniput to Delhi town, but not alone were we.
'Twas Lutuf-Ullah Populzai laid horse upon our track,
A swine-fed reiver of the North that lusted for the maid;
I might have barred his path awhile, but Scindia called me back,
And I -- O woe for Scindia! -- I listened and obeyed.
League after league the formless scrub took shape and glided by --
League after league the white road swirled behind the white mare's feet --
League after league, when leagues were done, we heard the Populzai,
Where sure as Time and swift as Death the tireless footfall beat.
Noon's eye beheld that shame of flight, the shadows fell, we fled
Where steadfast as the wheeling kite he followed in our train;
The black wolf warred where we had warred, the jackal mocked our dead,
And terror born of twilight-tide made mad the labouring brain.
I gasped: -- "A kingdom waits my lord; her love is but her own.
A day shall mar, a day shall cure for her, but what for thee?
Cut loose the girl: he follows fast. Cut loose and ride alone!"
Then Scindia 'twixt his blistered lips: -- "My Queens' Queen shall she be!
"Of all who ate my bread last night 'twas she alone that came
To seek her love between the spears and find her crown therein!
One shame is mine to-day, what need the weight of double shame?
If once we reach the Delhi gate, though all be lost, I win!"
We rode -- the white mare failed -- her trot a staggering stumble grew, --
The cooking-smoke of even rose and weltered and hung low;
And still we heard the Populzai and still we strained anew,
And Delhi town was very near, but nearer was the foe.
Yea, Delhi town was very near when Lalun whispered: -- "Slay!
Lord of my life, the mare sinks fast -- stab deep and let me die!"
But Scindia would not, and the maid tore free and flung away,
And turning as she fell we heard the clattering Populzai.
Then Scindia checked the gasping mare that rocked and groaned for breath,
And wheeled to charge and plunged the knife a hand's-breadth in her side --
The hunter and the hunted know how that last pause is death --
The blood had chilled about her heart, she reared and fell and died.
Our Gods were kind. Before he heard the maiden's piteous scream
A log upon the Delhi road, beneath the mare he lay --
Lost mistress and lost battle passed before him like a dream;
The darkness closed about his eyes -- I bore my King away.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Akbar, the Great (1542 - 1605)
Can a man - all alone - foist a god upon his fellows
Even if it's only himself
And they his subjects
G.. is Akbar!
Does the muezzin from the minaret of Qoutoub-Minar
look up or
down to the illiterate savant emperor
whose newly-ordered cosmos
much as Tamerlane and Genghis Khan's blood
mixed gods
invented the Gysin-Burroughs cut-up and fold-in method
a cornucopian chimera
shi'ite-sunnite-kharidjites
hindu/buddhist-jain
confucian-taoist/zoroastrian
orthodox-christian/judaic
saivite-vaisnavite
mahayanist-theravadite
shintoist-zen-chan
agnostic-atheist
A…. is Great!
In the begining there was no VERB for him
In the end
from
'brahmana' Himalayas to the 'asurya' Deccan
from
Ghazna and Kabul to the spent chugged mouth of the Ganges
where bloomed the Allah-Upanishad
One common language
One uncommon religion
One classless society
One mutually nourishing art
One scientific quest
and the sweet music of friendly disputation
within then the world's vastest book and art collection
though knowingly
took to wife an Hindu princess
chose his prime counsellor from among the Brahmin élite
where within hearing distance lithesome nymphs bathed in scented milk
his victoriously wearied warrior limbs back from punitive expeditions
through Panipat Delhi Agra Punjab Gwalior Ajmer
Gujarat Bengal Sind Orissa Baluchistan Ahmadnagar Kashmir
Khandesh
to circumscribe the sub-continent
a Ceasar at the court of Fatehpur-Sikri
Akbar is ___!
Who would parse and complete or conclude the syllogism
For « One » who dared abolish the jiziyah
Note
Jalal ud-Din Muhammad Akbar (1542-1605) , the third Mughal Emperor, edicted that muezzins should herald the rising of the sun by the call: Allah-u-Akbar!
The « jiziyah », a word of Arabic origin, meaning a tax levied on non-Muslims who wished to conserve their own property, and imposed by the Moghul sovereigns - on and off - in India, was abolished by Akbar in his seventh year of accession to the throne.
(©: T. Wignesan, March 13,1992, Paris - from the sequence/collection: 'Words for a Lost Sub-Continent')
poem by T. Wignesan
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The Downfall of Delhi
'Twas in the year of 1857 and on the 14th of September
That the Sepoy rebels at Delhi were forced to surrender;
The attack was first to be made by Brigadier Nicholson,
And he was ordered to attack the Cashmere Bastion.
The British were entirely in command.
Of Major-General Reid, assisted by Brigadier-Generals Wilson and Burnand;
After a long march, fighting through a hostile country,
And the brave heroes took up a position before the city.
Delhi gates were encircled with a fringe of fire,
But the British resolved to die rather than retire;
And the brave fellows rushed, towards the gate
Carrying the powder bags that were to seal the Sepoys' fate.
Here their progress was checked, for the drawbridge was destroyed,
But the British felt very little annoyed,
Because a few planks were across the chasm thrown,
Then a match was applied to the powder bags, and into atoms the gate was blown.
Then the rebel artillerymen with terror fled,
For the streets were strewn by the Sepoy dead;
Then the British charged them without fear,
Shouting "On boys, on, for our Queen and Country dear."
Then Lieutenant Home gave orders to advance,
And charge them with your bayonets, it is our only chance;
And with a ringing British cheer they charged, them fearlessly,
And. they drove the enemy before them through the streets of the city.
Then the young bugler blew a blast loud and clear,
Which was answered by a British ringing cheer;
But General Nicholson was killed, which was a great loss,
And afterwards the bugler was decorated with the Victoria Cross.
General Jones formed a junction with Colonel Campbell's Regiment,
And to enter by the Cashmere Gate they were bent;
And they advanced through the streets without delay,
And swept all before them through the gate without dismay.
The streets were filled with mutineers who fought savagely,
Determined to fight to the last and die heroically,
While the alarm drums did beat, and the cannons did roar,
And the dead and the dying lay weltering in their gore.
And the rebels fought for King Timour like tigers in a cage,
He was a very old man, more than ninety years of age;
And their shouts and yells were fearful to hear,
While the shrill sound of the bugle smote on the ear.
The British dash at Delhi will never be forgot,
For the chief instigators of the mutiny were shot;
And their bodies in the Mayor's Court were hung,
And as the people gazed thereon, their hearts with anguish were wrung.
And that evening General Wilson drank the health of the Queen,
Also his officers hailed her Empress of India, which enhanced the scene;
While the assembled thousands shouted "God save the Queen!"
Oh! it was a most beautiful scene.
Delhi was a glorious prize, for the city was full of jewels and gold,
Besides a hundred pieces of cannon, be it told;
But dearly was the victory gained,
But in the book of fame the British are famed;
Oh, it was a glorious and heroic victory,
And will be handed down to posterity.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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