Songs of Rama: A Journey of The Self, A Song of The Soul
I do not know
it nor can I say why have I called these poems to be put before as Songs of Rama: A Journey of The Self, A
Song of The Soul and what is that makes them readable and if your want to
read them, you may or otherwise leave them as I have written them in the memory
of my youngest brother who was no doubt a promising martial artist who lapsed
in addiction and depression as for in the absence of opportunities and I used
to serve him, but the path of life for him had been very zigzagged and painful,
recovering and recuperating and finally losing the battle of life. He used to
try to climb up the thick rope hanging from the banyan tree in the highland
area and used to run on the river bed, sparring, running for miles, lifting
weights, doing asanas, pranayams, sit-ups, jogging, as such was his practice,
but God willed it otherwise and he died away living a miserable death under
neglect and poverty. None supported us too. Neither the relatives nor the
officials, everyone exploited our cultural refinement and meek nature,
scholarship and property as we had not been hard. He was the fellow who used to
accompany me up to the brook, the crematorium, the cemetery, the hills, the
woods and solitary landscapes as for to help me in the writing of poems. Honesty
too pays it not always, neither simplicity nor high thinking. Our diary firms
used to run in losses and the pure milk takers used to befool us. Tears welled
up into the eyes when I had been writing the text of it as it did in writing Bapu, Asthi-Kalasha and Pinda-Dana.
They also
sing the songs of Rama who but sing in whispers, they are also the devotees of
Rama who pray it silently and the Lord hears them, definitely hears them coming
to the bhaktas. The Singer of Rama singing the song reminded me of Mahatma
Gandhi spinning the wheel and singing the song toothlessly, Raghupati raja ram
patit pawan sita ram. What it is in Nissim Ezekiel’s Poverty Poems and Jayanta’s Dawn
at Puri too flashes upon the mind’s plane. Side by side a picture of Ananda
coming again before Chandalika to take water from her hands and going away
singing the song of Buddha, dances before the eyes. There is something of The Listeners of Walter de la Mare in
it as there lie in some imaginary listeners in the haunted house listening and
saying in whispers. An autobiographical poem it is but a memoir in verse
banking upon remembrances, anecdotes, memories and reflections. There is also
something drawn from the gharana stuffs which may refer to cultural side and what
it lies in Eliot’s Tradition and
Individual Talent. The memory of the In
Memoriam of Tennyson and The Waste
Land imagery as applied by T.S.Eliot hangs over as an indirect impact over
the writing of the poem. The Singer is but a listener of the poem while the
writerly persona a speaker. A Dadhichi he was, a Karna to some extent in dana,
a Bhishma in his vow, an archer like Arjuna in his art. But he could not take
the things of the world into his stride, erred and fell down to be in hell. Had
he been worldly, clever and farsighted, it would not have happened. Even King
Harischandra had to ask for the taxes to be given for the cremation of his son,
Rohit working as chandal of a samshana ghat and so how could he allow her
without collecting the charges for his master under whom he was working.
Similar had been the situation of the family full of chaos and pandemonium.
Rahu and Ketu had affected the family with Shani looming large over and Ganesha
or Lakshmi’s blessing too seemed to be withdrawn from. Drunken demons and
devils started dancing nakedly in the house and with this ruined it all,
everything up and down, at sixes and sevens. The whole world seemed to be a
graveyard, a cemetery, a crematorium ground or a Tower of Silence; man a naked
Jaina sadhu going. The burnt libraries of Taxashila, Nalanda, Vikramshila and
their ruins brought me to the ground. Abnormals and drunkards, ganjeris,
bhangeris and darpiyas seemed to babbling on the floor. Bootleggers,
drug-traffickers and chain-smokers laughed like the hyenas. Daruwalla’s The
Professor Condoles took me by strike and I remembered the beginning.
Misfortunes never come alone had been the case with similar to that of Keatsian
Ruth and Job of The Old Testament. The Mrityunjaya Japa too could not bring him
back nor could the discourses of Nachiketa console. A wailing soul, he got lost
wandering with the wind, blowing and
sighing by, whistling and ruffling it all like the Mystic Noon of Harindranath. At that time after being so much
disillusioned and devastated in life, when it seemed to be on the crossroads,
fate crisscrossing the lines of the palm, I in frustration thought of showing my
hand to an astrologer who could be a thug. But I had no money as for buying his
gems and stones. Devdas too seemed to be struggling with life when on the verge
of his tragic end. Allen Ginsberg’s The
Howl like elements cannot be denied and also those available in Sylvia
Plath’s Daddy and other poems.
Something it remains even after the poem is finished, be it
the poetry portion or the introductory note. Hence, the post-script is appended
to when the re-editions are brought out. So, in the company of his I felt it
all. While with him late into the evening in the graveyard, the Elegy used to take the canvas away
from, but when to the secluded hilly tract the domain used to give the
impression of Tintern Abbey or Pope’s Ode
on Solitude. Where did I not go to in his company? The musical murmur of
the hilly brook used to enthrall me and made me remember of The
Brook by Tennyson. Sometimes I used to be to the dam and standing on the
footbridge we used to see the green waters flowing as Auden describes it in Look, Stranger. The hills used to shine
blue when seen, pictured, imagery taken from far. Sitting under the grove, I
used to hear the bird notes so musical and sonorous reminding me of Lines Written in Early Spring by
Wordsworth. It has rightly been said, man goes, but memories remain it.
Prologue
Just the
background has been given so that the matter can be taken into consideration
easily. How will it be the path of life who can but say it? What it in my
destiny? What it in my fate? What one thinks and what it happens, takes place.
Three Artists is but a bronze replica imagined about the three brothers so
close in thought, idea and rearing of life. They lived in a hut and passed the
days in poverty and scarcity of resources, but were from a very good and noble
family who never retorted in a harsh way and were from a landed, propertied
family. But mismanagement and strict patriarchy never let them live a good
life. The partition was a problem as people do not like to divide among so easily.
None in a joint family likes to partition properties so easily and the case in
hand takes to the Mahabharatan and Ramayanan tales doing the rounds. So the
things raked up so badly, finally leading to the crumble and fall of the House
of Maya. New members were inducted into but appeared to be indifferent and self
centred rather than giving time to or showing any interest in him.
I Lost Them All One By One, The Fall
of The Wickets
Three Artists, A Replica of Three
Unknown artists
The
Text
Just the voices in the dark singing
the song of Rama in whispers and so much soulfully with tears flowing the
cheeks is the melting scene of the poem; a remembrance so full of fond
memories. Here one can assess what life has given? What has it not? And who
gets what? All the people do not get their dues. The situations of life keep
changing so the times. How will be one’s time none can say it. The house I am
going to build I may not be able to live in. The things which I think to be own
may not be. A man may have everything, but bhoga may not be in his fate while
the other fellow may not have things, but he is enjoying a good life. This is
called luck. Many of us who had to be on the footpaths of life are on chair and
vice versa. In the pull between poetry, poverty, philosophy, culture, heritage,
scholarship and classicism on the one hand and while property, money,
belongings and lands on the other ruined it everything.
I Heard The Souls Praying, Hare Rama, Rama-Rama, The
Distressed Souls
Who Is Singing The
Song of Rama? Whose Is The Voice Coming From Feebly?
Your Love I Calling Me
O, Who Are You Singing The Song of Rama In The
Dark?
Hey, Who, You, Singing The Song of Rama?
Who are you,
Who are you
Singing in the dark,
In the dark?
The song of Rama,
Who, who you
The singer of soul,
The singer of spirit
Singing the song of Rama?
The voice was so feeble,
But so delightful
Like that a devotee of God,
Singing with zest in so much delight,
But slowly singing
And saying the prayers
With delight,
But a morose soul,
A maligned spirit
With tears dried in the eyes.
Went Away He Singing The Song of Rama
A singer he stood
Singing silently
In whispers,
A poor destitute soul,
A self split miserably
And in crisis,
Asked he not for,
Went away singing the song,
The song of Rama,
A soul so distressed
But delightful,
He came and stood before,
Sang and vanished out of sight,
A poor soul so calmly composed and good.
O Singer Divine
Tears had been in the eyes
Of the singer,
The singer of Rama
And also in the eyes of mine
When I tried to call,
Stood he far from
But getting the message sent across just
A singer of Rama,
A poor soul destitute,
A maligned spirit he
Singing the song,
The song of Rama
With tears dried down
Which but I could not control.
I called him, called and called
And heard he,
Heard he so tearfully,
Though wanted he to,
But could not, could not
As a spirit was he,
A self liberated from the body!
In The Anand Ashrama
Came he the singer
Of Rama
Singing the song of Rama,
Though not willing to,
Tears had been in his face,
Tears had been in mine,
We wept inconsolably,
But what could we do?
And having sung,
Sung the song of Rama,
Sung delightfully
With all the zest
Went he away jollily
Taking permission,
Bidding goodbye,
The singer,
The singer of Rama.
Epilogue
Anand Ashrama, Ashrama of Delight and Anand Mela, Fair of
Delight, these two have been presented as divine platforms of meeting where
the souls can have a visionary sharing of feelings and emotions. Eklavya as a
poem tagged in here too tells of the rearing of the aggrieved soul, but the
things could not acclimatize in his favour. A poem on silence too has been
dragged to give peace and calm of mind and soul. The poem may be designated a
strange meeting with the Singer of Rama. The Strange Singer of Rama here lies
it as a remembrance and the singer singing it to be back, on his retreat journey
or just as for nostalgia sake we quoting it. There is something of The Murder in the Cathedral and the
choruses here in this poem. If to see it differently, the autobiographical
piece almost like the anecdote, Dream
Children: A Reverie by Charles Lamb.
When the Music Is Gone
The music is gone,
The situation is changed
But whenever feel I sad and lonely,
Melancholic and painful,
I turn, turn to the singer of Rama,
The singer of Rama
Singing the song of Rama in zest,
In full zest
So soulfully and with love,
When Anand Ashrama got deserted
He felt lonely
When all the members went away
One by one
And there lived not anyone
He got depressed
And it wept the soul of his
Which I felt to see.
And when it finished it all,
The singer went away
Just promising to meet
In Anand Mela
But he was but a different man
Indifferent to it all
And philosophical,
Free from all the fetters
Which but bind us.
God’s Anand Mela
O God, Anand Mela, Anand Mela,
Anand Mela, Fair of Delight,
Here people come, meet
And go away
And so did he come again
But was indifferent,
Indifferent to joy and sorrow,
Completely a changed man,
Liberated from the bonds of maya
And moha,
Sang he not the song,
Just balancing himself
He came and went by
Just casting a glance over!
Eklavya
Silence
What It In My Karma, Dharma? My Karam,
Dharam
The Strange
Singer of Rama
(The Singer went away and never came
he again and as thus faded it the fond memories of his life, just like as a man
comes into this world and goes away from here. But the song which he came to
whispering, saying it humbly still reverberates with resounding with resonance
as if he were here, he were here. The Song of Life is never done with; in every
age man will sing whenever he will feel sorrow and pain.)
O,
God test You not
As
have tested You so much,
I
am hopeless,
Hopeless
and helpless,
Get
me across!,
With
these the protagonist looked upwards
And
prayed for flowers to fall upon
As
for blessing to be bestowed upon
The
bereaved grieving soul,
Have
mercy, have mercy upon him,
The
poor soul, the poor spirit,
My
God, my God!
(Wiping
tears)
This is the way one comes into the world,
This is the way one goes
And there lives it not anything,
Anything as own,
This is the way one comes and one goes away.
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