The Fire and Sermon

Abstract

The Fire and Sermon Abhay K. (bio) After T.S. EliotThe river’s soul is slashed: its five fingersFractured and dammed with an imaginary border. The windCrosses back and forth the ancient land, unhindered. The saint has departed.Sweet Indus, flow gently, till I sing again.The river bears no blood stains, partition papers,Silk flags, passports, blue or greenOr other remains of dark midnights. The saint has departed.And their successors, the drifting souls of the subcontinent;The departed have left only their words of wisdom.By the lost waters of Sarasvati1 I sit down and weep . . .Sweet Indus, flow gently till I sing again,Sweet Indus, flow gently, for I tread rough terrain.I hear explosions in Pokhran2The split of the atoms, shockwaves ripping the world apart. Violent storms blew through the desertDrowning villages and cities in sandWhile I was strolling at Bandra bandstandOn a hot summer evening in BombayThe desert shook again, this time in Quetta3 [End Page 291] While I was grazing a cowherd in BalochistanDust rose in the sky turning the day into nightAnd the dry hot winds from the desert destroyedAll the sunflowers from Peshawar to Kanyakumari.But from time to time I hear talks of sunflowersBeing revived or of planting a new crop of similar kindWhich will grow as fast and shine as bright.O the sun shines bright in the desertAnd there is no waterWe drink only milk and eat only dessertSarve bhavantu sukhin, sarve santu niamayahSarve bhadrani pashyantu, ma kaschit dukh bhag bhavet! 4 Ram Ram Sita RamHare Krishna Hare HareIshwar Allah Tero NamSabko Sanmati De Bhagwan 5 Eternal CityUnder the smog of a November noonMrs. Kaul, the Civil ServantBright as ruby, in her finest SariStitched in Benares by Banke Bihari,Asked me gently in HinglishTo dine at the India International CentreFollowed by a luminous night at a five-star hotel. At the midnight hour, when the world sleepsTurning and tossing in beds, when the humanity recuperatesLike a frog hibernating in winter,I, Lord Mountbatten, though blind, swinging across the subcontinent, [End Page 292] Partitioned with a pen on paper, can seeAt the midnight hour, the sun setting over the British EmpireHeading homeward, as the sailor returns home from sea,It’s teatime in London, time to make one’s own breakfast, lightOne’s own stove, and to open canned tin food.Of the vast empireOver which the Sun never set,What has been left?Souvenirs, loot, kohinoor, and maps?I, Mountbatten, now an old man with wrinkled skinForesaw what was coming, and left the scene—All awaited that expected moment.Nehru, the impatient man with the gift of gab, arrived,The last Englishman, Macaulay’s true son,One of a kind the British could trustSomeone who could speak the language, a confidante.The propitious hour arrived at midnight, as he agreed,The Raj ended, India woke up from centuries of slumber,for its tryst with destinybut broken and limping.Partitioned and bleeding, assaulted by invadersand tribesmen heavily armed;inviting immediate response,that made a substantial difference.(And I, the Time, have foreseen it allEnacted on this same ancient land of Bharat;I have fought in Kurukshetra and KarnalAnd walked among the dead after the great war of Mahabharat.)I Mountbatten deliver my final farewell speech,And grope my way, after the sunset (on the Empire), to the sea . . . [End Page 293] India heaves a sigh of relief,Fully aware of its new found freedom;Its numb amputated body feels a streak of terror:It must move on: now what’s done is done.When even great men stoop to folly andCommit despicable acts partitioning the landIt wipes tears with its tender left hand,And sobs silently alone at dawn. A new music plays in the Moghul gardensAnd along the Rajpath, up the Central Secretariat.O Delhi o Delhi, I can sometimes hearBeside a public monument at the India Gate,The pleasant sounds of the...