A loner's Ravings

No, that is not Unix. It is who am I? What the hell am I doing over here? Hey, am I the sum of feelings, emotions, dreams And whatever other nonsene you can think of Embodied in a stupid human frame? Is that all? What a waste ! There has to be some other reason. Why do I cause so much anger in others Just by opening my mouth? The winter is nearing. It is getting colder. The jays and the flowers will wither away. The snow will cover the lakes and the waters. And I will continue, Isn't that nonsense. I mean, how come i weather this, and more.

Life is slipping away, Like a mudslide. There is so little left to hope for. Most family, friends, and neighbours are gone. What is there to live for. Nothing seems worth the trouble. I suppose, that is life. In troubled times, In times filled with strife and hatred In times where the quickest remedy is killing What can you hope for?

What is the difference between war and revolution, includng the so called American one. One, revolution, comes from the bottom, from the very dregs so to say. From people who have to do something just to stay alive, live decently, sometimes just to survive, as in France. The other one, war, is a question of ego. You hurt my papa, I hurt you. Don't get me wrong. The guys who actually fight the war are still like those old Roman gladiators. You watch us die, guys, that is entertainment. And so it was that it came to pass, that the armies were arrayed on the battle ground of Kurukshethra. Theye were kin. Aren't we all? What is that word. Homo sapiens. That is it. So I guess you could call every one kin. By the way, were did those Neanderthal guys go? So much for kinship !

What you say is what counts! Funny. All this time I had thought that what counts is what you do! Trust me, that isn't true. Words have the power to hurt and wound and destroy. Nothing you do after the wrong statement makes the slightest difference. The damage is permanent. Maybe more permanent than the actions themselves. Who was it that said, the pen is mightier than the sword. He forgot the tongue!

When was it I slept the last time? The gift of the gods, denied To raving minds. To the witness of lunacies. Sleep is a balm inevtably denied. My wish is so simple: I wish I could sleep.

In the beginning, In the absolute darkness of nothingness Before time itself was born, There existed nothing but the source, The egg from which all that is today came to be. This was the cosmic egg, the Brahmanda, You could call it a singularity, naked or clothed, In this egg, which had no features, Nothing associated, And yet in this was contained everything Even the gods themselves were contained in the cosmic egg. (Did I hear the word singularity?, That is Ok. It was singular.)

From where shall I begin? The roots of the conflict ran deep. Indeed it starts with the creation. Of the universe. Maybe the creation itself was wrong, flawed. Else, why should the creatures of god fight and kill each other. Or should I start later, with the families? And the small quarrels which grew with the children and finally flared into the great battle? The story can be told briefly. Hundreds of thousands of men, most of them kin, fought for a throne. eight survived, and those who survived lived more mserably than the dead. One, the most accursed of them all, wanders the worlds yet, the boon of death withheld fom him. He has a mark on his head. Call him Aswa-dhaama, Call him Cain. It is all the same. For the fugitive wanders, forever. Alone. The dark brroding of mind shall never know rest. Or maybe I can start with the remorse of the victors. The days which hung like dead weight upon their souls, and the nights when they couldn't sleep. Till they eventual...

Having rested and partaken of the frugal evening meal Ugra-sravas asked those waiting around him: "What shall I tell you, worthy friends? What would you be pleased to hear? I have been to many places. I have seen many things, Listened to many stories, mostly real. Is it about gods you wish to hear? Or is it about men who were like gods? Two generations are now gone since the great war. But the sands of Syamantha-panchaka are still red With the blood of great warriors. Men who fought and died Some valiantly Some like cowards. Whn the war was over the bodies of the dead piled almost to the heavens. Half eaten by wolves and jackals The destiny of the monarch, to be eaten by a jackal. To fulfill the blind egos. Would like to hear that story? Men such as those are born but rarely. But once born they are committed to death like a lover. For, out of that great battle, Only eight came out alive. Five were the victors, and three the vanquished....

Death is the very best gift of nature. How many times, How many uncounted times Have I wished Nature would be kind to me. But, no. Maybe it has a time and maybe even a place. To fulfill the destiny. It is hard to forget those days, When men were cut to pieces And blood flowed like rain How high it rises When your head is gone ! It is my destinty to carry this image of carnage Even past my own end

n The deep, silent night was broken only by the half hearted cries of crickets. There were other sounds in the forest. Unknown sounds. Only the very foolish or the very brave would venture out into the forest on such a night. The half starved creatures movng around the fire burning like a deep red eye in the darkness looked human. They were human. Some were chanting , mumbling slokas. The others, the novices had little idea what was going on. They wondered about their decision. But they knew they had no choice. This was destiny at work. Then they saw the lonely man, weak from walking, tired from lack of food, and sick with the burden in his soul, moving like a shade, towards their camp. His name was Ugra-Sravas, the son of Lomaharshan, the keeper of horses . Anything was welcome in the stillness of the forest. The monotony is hard to believe. Any visitor was almost a hero to be worshipped. So they welcomed him, like a hero, and bade him take his seat on a heap of grass, ...

It is funny how suddenly you can die Or how slowly The way you are born, slowly and painfully. Maybe it has something to do with karma? I don't know. All I know it is taking a long time with me, It's own sweet time. The air is still, The flowers are sleeping, The growls and screams are slowly ebbing away. And the river, dark and red Still flows. But I remain. Witness to a carnage.