Arun Kolatkar (1932-2004)

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Yeshwant Rao

Are you looking for a god?

I know a good one.
His name is Yeshwant Rao
and he's one of the best.
look him up
when you are in Jejuri next.
Of course, he's only a second-class god
and his place is just outside the main temple.
Outside even of the outer wall.
As if he belonged
among the tradesmen and the lepers.
I've known gods
prettier faced
or straighter laced.
Gods who soak you for your gold.
Gods who soak you for your soul.
Gods who make you walk
on a bed of burning coal.
Gods who put a child inside your wife.
Or a knife inside your enemy.
Gods who tell you how to live your
life, double your money
or triple your land holdings.
Gods who can barely suppress a
smile as you crawl a mile for them.
Gods who will see you drown
if you won't buy them a new crown.
And although I'm sure they're all to be
praised, they're either too symmetrical
or too theatrical for my taste.
Yeshwant Rao,
mass of basalt,
bright as any post box,
the shape of protoplasm
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or king size lava pie
thrown against the wall,
without an arm, a leg
or even a single head.
Yeshwant Rao.
He's the god you've got to meet.
If you're short of a limb,
Yeshwant Rao will lend you a hand
and get you back on your feet.
Yeshwant Rao
Does nothing spectacular.
He doesn't promise you the earth
Or book your seat on the next rocket to
heaven. But if any bones are broken,
you know he'll mend them.
He'll make you whole in your body
and hope your spirit will look after
itself. He is merely a kind of a bone-
setter. The only thing is,
as he himself has no heads, hands and feet,
he happens to understand you a little
better.

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The Manohar
The door was open.
Manohar thought
it was one more temple.

He looked inside.
Wondering
which god he was going to find.

He quickly turned away

when a wide eyed calf
looked back at him.

It isn't another temple,

he said,
it's just a cowshed.

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 Parikshit- Janamejaya's Father

Sarpa Satra
- Arun Kolatlar
2004
Curse of Parikshit

Janamejaya
It was a scheming snake, I’m told, Snakes characteristics- cunning,
patient, vengeful
with a grudge against
my great-grandfather that killed my
father.

Killed him with venom

that had gained in
potency
through years of patient waiting

that could, with a single

drop turn a full-grown
banyan tree
in a flash into a crackling cloud of ash

suspended for one endless moment

over a fluted pillar of fire
before collapsing into a smoking ruin.

A snake that had used

all the cunning of its kind to get
past the complex shield of the
defences

my father, who had been warned of the

conspiracy by his secret police well ahead of
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time,
had surrounded himself with

-- a palace perched atop a single

column, that stood like a crystal lotus
on a steel stem in the middle of a vast lake

patrolled round the clock by

crocodiles equipped with
nightvision—
and which he thought was impenetrable
Not for this assassin though,
Who had had himself smuggled in,
disguised as a tiny worm in a fruitbowl
and had grown before the unbelieving
eyes of all the king’s men who fled in
terror

to coil himself around my father

and sting him into a searing

flame of pure pain
and turn the whole palace in fact

into one grand funeral pyre.

The killer himself, having
struck, took off like a streak

of lightning in reverse
to watch the blaze triumphantly from
above and do a little jig in the night sky.

I knew nothing of all

this at the time
--I was only a child then—

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and my guardians had to wait
patiently for me to come of age

to lay this terrible piece of knowledge on me.

But now that I know,

I assure the slippery sons of Kadru
they will not get away with it.

(I hear they actually distributed

sweets in Bhogawati
when my father died.)

My vengeance will be swift and terrible.

I will not rest
until I’ve exterminated them all.

They’ll discover
that no hole is deep
enough to hide from
Janamejaya.

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Jaratkaru Speaks to Her Son Aastika

What would your reaction be

if someone were to come up to
you and say,

My father died of snakebite.

When? Oh, I was too young
then. I don’t even remember,

but I’m going to avenge his

death by killing
every single snake that lives;

yes,
by wiping out the whole species
from the face of the earth.
You’d naturally assume
first that the man was
joking.
And after you realise he’s not,

That he’s completely serious

You may look at him closely, perhaps, trying
to remember the name of a good shrink.

Or tell him about your own

plan to cleanse the earth of all
ants because one bit your
mum.

Or try to explain to him,

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perhaps, how impractical the
whole idea is. Point out the flaws
in his logic.

Tell him how morally

unjustifiable his position is,
or how politically incorrect.

And, if the person voicing such

sentiments should happen to be

the king of a sizeable country,

it should be cause for concern

indeed for the future

of the country in question;

and, before such thoughts can take
root in the sovereign head

or evolve into a clear plan of action,

one might decide to do something about
it. Like leave him for a few days

at the bottom of a deep dry

well

without food or water maybe

and get a host of brahmins—a
thousand may be enough—

to sit around the mouth of the well and

chant peace mantras round the clock
until he has had enough

and sues for peace.

The alternative, of course, is to depose him.
Or leave the country.
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But what do the
people around
Janamejaya,
his cronies and councillors, do?

Oh, they encourage him

instead (can you beat that?),
they applaud and encourage him.

And I don’t mean just

Uttanka who, mind you,
Has his own score to
settle
With Takshaka and is only too
ready To feed this fire now

With rivers of molten butter

Just as he was ready once

To blow air
Up the arsehole of a firehorse.

But I mean all the

great Sages as well.
Yes, they actually encourage him

And invent a yajnya

--a complete
innovation— Called the
Snake Sacrifice

Just for his convenience.

What will they think of
next? One wonders.

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Vedic sanction for the thread
ceremony Of a hyena’s son?

Done.

And, once that is settled,

The sort of thing that quickly
balloons Into a question of national
importance

Would seem to be :
Who will bag the contract for
constructing The sacrificial township?
And no one has the time,

But no one,
To listen what Lohitaksha has to say

(that Saturn in
asterism Of
Uttaraphalguni
Does not bode well for the project),

Once the king himself has

dismissed The architect’s warning
As so much superstitious nonsense.

All the great rishis and

maharishis, So-called

Great thinkers, all

The finest minds of our

age, Even people like
Atreya, Uddalaka, Shvetaketu

--people we thought of
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Until, oh, the day before
yesterday As living volcanoes of
conscience

Ready to blow their

tops At the first sign
Of any wrongdoing in the land

Or whenever the mighty

strayed From the path of
justice— Seem strangely silent

And worried about just one thing:

How to wrangle a job for
themselves As officiating priests.

Sad, isn’t it,

That even someone like Somashravas
Is unable to hide

How very pleased with himself he

is Because he has managed

to land the plum job

of presiding priest
(And at such a young age
too!); But why deny him the
right?

He deserves the job. And, besides,

It’s not everyday that the king
himself Comes to you with a blank
cheque

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And all but begs you
On bended knees to accept the
offer. How can anyone refuse?

Somashravas, you say?

But his own mother is a snake
woman. Isn’t she? Sure!

And so?
Should he allow a little thing like
that To stand between himself

And the highest pinnacle of

success That any mantra
mutterer

Can hope to aspire to?

And the heart sinks

When you realise that even someone
Like the great Vyasa himself

Looks upon the

event, Essentially,
As a not to be missed opportunity

To unleash his self-indulgent

epic On an unsuspecting world -
-way too long if you ask me.

I mean 24000 verses, Lord have

mercy! What it badly needs

Is a good editor.

But, then again,

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Where else can he hope to get
Such an audience,
handpicked,

Consisting of the best

minds Of three generations
--crème de la crème, oh, absolutely—

And a captive one at that

For so long a period of
time?
Not again in this avatara, for sure!

But what did you expect

of An old man
Who saw it as no part of his business

To interfere, let alone

try And stop
The madness of his grandchildren

From getting completely out of

hand; Who let it run

Its full course to the inevitable

Tragic ending;
Saw them all kill each other
off; Just stood by

As a whole nation destroyed

itself And, instead of being
Ashamed

Of the whole saga

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And his own role in
it,
Or trying to forget it all,

Quietly set out

To put down the whole wretched
chronicle In black and white

And in polished verse

To the eternal shame
of Posterity

2
Which is not to say that I
Have been ever been able to forgive Takshaka
For what he did.
To say that he was always an
extremist Is not to make excuses for
him.

He deserves the harshest punishment in the book.

And I certainly do not

approve Of the way he’s
hiding now
Behind Indra’s throne to save his skin,

Hoping his powerful friend

Will help him escape the
consequences Of an act we’re now
paying for.

It only shows what

cowards All terrorists are

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Behind their snarling ferocious masks.

But, to tell you the truth,

Takshaka has never been quite
himself Since his wife died.

Cut down brutally

During the senseless massacre that took
place When…

But you don’t know about that do

you? You don’t know anything

About how they torched the Khandava forest

You wouldn’t
In fact, we’ve all been trying to forget it,
Erase the incident from our memories
But I think it’s time you
learnt. You should know
What really happened—it’s your right--

Before venerable Vyasa gives

His own spin
To the whole of human history

You must have heard

Of Janamejaya’s great
grandfather Arjuna, the great
superhero

A wizard with a bow,

He had no equal in
archery, Unless it was

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Kama

But he received divine weapons

--a divine bow,
Two inexhaustible quivers—

And god knows what happened to

him, What came over him!

Just went berserk, I guess.

For the very first act of

heroism He performed
As soon as he got the new toys in his hands

Was, well, this:

He burnt down one of the
largest Rainforests in the land,
And what a thorough job he made of
it. Reduced it completely

To ash.

It wasn’t just him,

No.
He was aided in this crime

By another.
A crosscousin of his,
A crony since childhood.

They were a team of

sorts, Partners
In many escapades

This other
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Had also acquired
Divine weapons of his own:

A chakra
called
sudarshan
and a gada called Kaumodaki

And it was these two together

That did this thing

--burn down the Khandava forest

And when they were

done, Not one green leaf,
Not a single blade of grass
Was left behind.
Just miles of ash that kept
smouldering For months afterwards

Surging with sap

And bursting with gums and resins
That forest had been

God’s own laboratory on earth

Where life had been allowed to express
itself With complete abandon

It contained five thousand

Different kinds of butterflies
alone

And a golden squirrel found nowhere else

Some of the trees in that

place Were, oh,
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Hundreds and hundreds of years old, easily;

And it contained a
wealth Of medicinal
plants
That were not found anywhere else

But nothing was left, not a trace

Of that great sanctuary so dear to
Indra And protected by the Gods
themselves

By the time these two were done,

It was all gone,
Everything.
Not just the trees, birds, insects and
animals (herds upon herds

Of elephants, gazelles, antelopes),

But people,
Aastika, People as
well Simple folk,

Children of the forest

Who had lived there happily for
generations, Since time began

They’ve gone without a

trace With their language
That sounded like the burbling of a brook

Their songs that sounded like the twitterings of birds

And the secrets of their shamans

Who could cure any sickness

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By casting spells with their special
flutes Made from the hollow
Wingbones of red-crested cranes.

Why did they do

it? Who knows!
Just for kicks, maybe.

Maybe just the fact

That now they had all these fantastic weapons
Went to their heads
And they just couldn’t wait
to test their awesome powers.
Maybe they just wanted

A clear title to the

land Unchallenged
By so much as a tigermoth

They were certainly determined to make

sure That nothing got out

Of that conflagration alive.

The moment anything tried

They drove it back into that
inferno Or mowed it down

As the two of them

Thundered around the burning
forest In their divine chariots

…….
And where, you may well
ask, Was Takshaka

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When all this was happening?

In Kurukshetra, if you
please! And what was he
doing there? Having a dip

In the holy Saraswati

river To fulfil a vow,
As he claims?
Or spending a night
In the arms of a Puluvan girl
He was involved with at the time,

As I suspect? Never
mind What is certain is
that
He was not there when he was needed most:

To defend his wife and

son And protect
The forest he held in trust for the gods

For although his son got away

--a miraculous escape—
His wife was not so lucky

And fell prey to a shaft

That came from the magical
quiver Of the valiant Arjuna

When he came to see me

That time, after killing
Parikshita To brag about

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How infernally clever he had been\
And what a mighty blow he had
struck In the name of justice,

Hoping to wow an
impressionable Kid-sister and to
bask
In her wide-eyed admiration,
I had to disappoint
him I was only
Horrified at what he had done

What I don’t
understand, I said to
him, is
Where have you been all this time?

Why did you not make

Arjuna Pay for his crime
While he was yet alive?

And God knows he lived long

enough— In fact so feeble had he
become

In his old age, I am told,

That he couldn’t even

hold A bow in his hands.
You could easily have seized your chance then.

Why did you wait

For his grandson to grow up
To give him a taste of your terrible poison

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Instead of
Arjuna Don’t
you know
That true revenge accepts no

substitute? ……

Snakes from near and

far, Large and small,
Come floating, writing through the air,

Dragged by spells,
As if caught in an invisible lasso
And throw themselves into the
fire

The more you feed it

The hungrier it seems to
get And the higher it
blazes
…..

Surely this
sacrifice Is not
pleasing
In the sight of the gods!

How could it be
When they haven’t even
been Invited for it

No, it wasn’t an
oversight, They would do

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well
To stay away from it

For they could easily end

up As the victims
In this cynical yajnya

If they came
anywhere near it
And they know it.
Can you think of a worse
insult To agni,

The sacred sacrificial fire,

Whose pleasant duty it is to

carry Gifts, oblations,

Supplications and praise

Offered lovingly by man

To God (or the Gods concerned)
and Bring back their blessings

Than to give him the dirty

job Of a common
Assassin, butcher or a mass murderer,

To employ him
To exterminate an entire species
Systematically

And in cold blood

In violation of all the known
laws Of gods and man

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To offer hecatombs to
--what!—
One man’s twisted logic and madness?

This snake sacrifice,

This mockery, this grotesque
parody Of the institution of yajnya
Has got to stop.
But all those who should have realised
this Are on the payroll of Janamejaya

And will do nothing to spoil his

party. …..

And the sickening smell of burning snakeflesh

--strong enough to make you gag— Continues
to spread throughout the land

It has, by now, become

so Pervasive,
So much a part of the air we breathe

That soon we’ll start thinking of fresh

air As something unindian, alien

And antinational

Have they all gone mad?

What do they think they’re
doing, These wise men!

Does one have to remind

them That this
Planet itself, this sphere, our whole earth

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Is resting,
Balanced precariously,
On the hood of a snake called Shesha,

The mightiest of them all?

…….
A slight toss of his head…
The merest shrug…
And it will be all over.

Khatam.
That’s what I’m really worried
about. And once that happens,

THEN what!
Surely the time has
come For someone to go

And ask Janmejaya

That bull among
men, One simple
question:

Once the earth goes bust,

What speck of dust
do you intend to rule on, Mr King?

And I think it’s your

job, Aastika.
I mean who else is there to do
it? ….

You’re too young

--true.
Still wet behind the ears,
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Some may
say. But that
Actually may be your greatest strength.
It means your
eyesight Is good
Your vision clear

Not spoilt by reading too many books

yet, Or ruined

By the smoke of too many sacrifices,

Or clouded by rage, power, ego,

pride Or any of the other

Common diseases of the eye.

It means that your brain is not maggoty

yet, With perceived wrongs,

Or prickled in the brine of hatred

It means your wounds heal

quickly, Thank God for that

It means you do not view the world

Through the dark prism of a

wound Infected

By the dirty bandage of history.

It means that the

gangrene Of insensitivity
Hasn’t spread to your soul.
……..
When Kakshak and
Pishang, Your cousins,
Playmates you grew up with,
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Were snatched away
Suddenly from our
midst, Right before our
eyes,

As if an invisible eagle
Had swooped down
And picked them up in his talons.

And we just sat there gaping

helplessly And watched

The two of them until

--trying to hang on to each other

Desperately

And looking like a squirming Om sign—

They disappeared
In the direction of
Taxila (the sky above
the city

That lies just beyond the

horizon Is always red these
days,

Like the eyes of a priest

From continuous
exposure To holy smoke
And excessive drinking of

soma), …….

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At least there’s one good
thing, I tell myself
--and find consolation in the thought

That you have nothing to

fear, Nothing to fear.

You’ll be safe, absolutely.

For although I have given you

birth, Although a snake woman
Has brought you into this world,

You are your father’s

son, A man.
You belong to the human race.

Don’t forget that,

ever. And that’s the
reason
Why you’ll have to stop this sacrifice.

Not for Vasuki Mama’s

sake, Or mine.

Not for anything else—

But to make sure

That the last vestige of
humanity You are heir to,

Your patrimony, yes,

Does not go up in smoke
In this yajnya.

Go, Aastika;
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And my prayers go with you.
Go, my son,

And all our

hopes Go with
you.
My heart tells me

You’ll find a
way To put a
stop
To that festival of hatred.

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The Ritual Bath
When these sacrificial
jamborees Come to an end, The
officiating priests,

Honoured guests, vedic

wizards And other

Intellectual superstars of the show

Go back to their respective

homes, Ashramas or whatever,
Bearing wealth beyond measure--
-

Cartloads of gold,
Herds of cattle with golden
horns, Slavegirls dripping
pearls.

Bands of
brahmins,
Hangers-on,
and assorted freeloaders
Strip the place
Of everything that isn’t nailed
down And make off

With whatever they can

lay Their hands on—
Sacrificial vessels, furniture, deerskins, bricks.

After the
mandatory Ritual
bath
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To mark the conclusion of the sacrifice,

Kings return to their

capitals Reminding
themselves
That they also have kingdoms to govern

Wondering
Which neighbourly kingdoms to attack
next Or what new taxes to levy

To refill the coffers

And ask their ministers to come
up With recommendations

When these things come to an

end People find
Other subjects to talk about

Than just
The latest episode of the
Mahabharata And the daily
statistics of death

Rediscover simpler pleasures

Fly kites,
Collect wildflowers, make love

Life seems
To return to normal.
But do not be deceived

Though sooner or later

These celebrations of hatred
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too Come to an end

Like everything else

The fire—the fire lit for the purpose
Can never be put out

The fire that Aurva got

up For example
To avenge the massacre of the Bhrigus

Still burns at the bottom of the

sea Where he threw it

At the instance of his ancestors

And the fire that Parashara

produced For the destruction Of
rakshasas

Still rages, they say

In the great forest
beyond The Himalayas

Where the great sage tried

To dispose of it
When he stopped the sacrifice

The urgings of
Poulastya, And there, to
this day
They say, it continues to consume

Rakshashas Rocks
Trees ……

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 -----------------------------
Takshaka & Janamejaya Family Tree

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A Scared Takshaka

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Parikshit

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Janamejaya’s Sarpasatra

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Udhishthir gambling

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Karna’s Death

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Gandhari’s Curse

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Bheeshma on his Deathbed

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Krishna, Arjuna and Bheeshma (in Kurukshetra)

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Krishna in his Vishwarupa

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Khandava Dahana

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Kadru and Vinata

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Samudra Manthana

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Death of Abhimanyu

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