The Triumph

 You stand over the bodies of those who were your brothers,

Your teachers, your grand-uncle, your nephews. 

"They are just bodies; it's the soul that matters," Keshav told you once. 

He's right. He has to be, He's Narayan. 

You know He is.

You hover over the son of the Sun God,

Once a hated enemy, that insolent son of a charioteer, 

Now your brother, watered by your mother's tears. 

You want to throw Gandiva away, but you cling to it with desperation. 

Blood seeps through your hands as your grip tightens. 

Well, let the pain come-- you welcome it. 

It drives away the aching numbness. 

Your eyes won't weep, your throat won't scream. 

Guilt, anger, pain, loneliness-- they all surge through you as you survey the carnage. 

This was a Dharmayudha, and you won, you tell yourself, 

Even as the darkness threatens to swallow you. 

Won? No, my darling, no. 

There are no victors in a war. 

There are only survivors. 

You've lost more than you can count. 

You're injured, tired, hurt, broken. 

But you're here. 

And you can hear-- 

Shrieks and cries-- of widows, of birds of prey, of orphaned sons and daughters, of bereft mothers and fathers. 

Once more, you're desperate to feel something, 

But there is only that hungry hollowness. 

And yet--

And yet there is still someone here to comfort you. 

You feel a cool hand on your shoulder,

And when you turn your head, the Light absorbs you. 

You are numb no more.