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Prof Charu Sheel Singh

of

Varanasi, UP, India

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THE INDIAN HERO

by

Prof Charu Sheel Singh

The clouds dark
came over the hierarchy
of stars while the earth
cried & groan’d in
pangs of birth and
maternal love; the
Bhishma vows have crush’d
aside the mating of the
abyss with the silent
airs of Paradise.
Creative winds blow
round the gyres of mortality
and badly augur for
the birth of a being;
wreaths lie on eternal
graves while roses close
their eyelids after the
sun set.
Coconuts are broken
before a goddess
who is a mother and
fulsome meals offered
to a god who is a
father. Progenital
expectations roll into
eons of endless waiting.
The hero we waited
for all along is one
of us-in-us. He was
born of the union of a
yew tree with a genie
who transplanted
insubstantials into the
contrapuntal symbolism
spread over the
four corners of the
earth.
Such beings are
made and unmade out
of the city-slums &
garbage-heaps where
the spider weaves his
sinful, coercive nets
to catch & disfigure the
lineaments of Eternity.
The sun rose again
into the nuptial depths
and widths of the
fallow regions of the
uncelibate land that
human bodies are. The
nets of nerves & arteries
combined well to stop
pilferages and make for
the smooth flow that
is life.
The city-slums were
freshen’d with festive
battalions of honey-bees’
fragrant tours over the
human land & over pennons
& arched gateways decorated
like the spatial bride
of recurring seasons.
Summer flowers breath’d
into minarets of hope
winding despair into
coils of heat. Banners &
streamers gay-flutter’d
into the pinnacles of
glory that put to shame
the lotus golden beams
that spread all round the
courtyards of celestial
palaces.
The moistureless land
became a city of glowing
fountains while every one
waited for the bridegroom
in the jungles of
THE INDIAN HERO
1993
106
the memory of a
shallow mind & in the
open terraces facing the
mysterious skies.
The city puff’d deadly
dust, became a bust of
the monuments of history
which stood like the
falling figure of the
Eiffel Tower. The
forebodings about the
land which is a city
implanted into the
bones of the hero
cut all ratios of
possibilities & threw
imagination into a
river that never flows.
The flaming chimneys
and gargantuan machines
threw volcanic proportions
out of joints. The city
was framed into a
way as to lead all
roads into circular
graveyards; flowers stood
mute, aloof, & set
apart from all chords
of harmonious consciousness
at the centre.
It were the elephants
who stood in an array to
greet the coming Bodhisattva.
But in the city-streets
& in the open parks
where generations come
& sit & go, talks of
the paintings of
Michael Angelo are
lost and narratives
forgotten for wherefrom
shall the hero emerge
& say ‘hello’ to
masts at Manhatten.
The moon spread its
silvery beams cool &
languishing into the
portals of the desert
and into the corridors
that lead to the gateways
of Eternity.
Night stars twinkle
within the shadowy clusters
of their closed landscape
for the galaxy of
seven was missing. The
sacred souls from the
seven countries could
not find their way out
to search for the myth
of a hero who is
coming.
It was god coming
into the bones of
a boar & becoming
a sorceress in
minutes that elapse in
no time into the
ashes of smoke.
The heathen lands
& the Christian alike
dig out the graves
of their dead to
find if someone is fled
to the skies. The
ethereal regions within
the bones rotate into
the circular destiny
of desire. Elemental
fire, air & water &
earth breathe in
combinations new while
the laboratory of mind
examines the
pilferages, if any,
in the rudimentaries
& fundamentals of
creation.
The Indian Hero
107
Creation is the name
of a cuckoo & crow
is the surname of
death. In nights
& days mingled with
the ivories of
cascades, rivers
make an islandic
saga while mountains
endlessly pulsate
& fume on the
death-bed of a
burning earth.
Christ & Krishna
come and dance a
nuptial chorus &
impregnate the earth.
The earth vomits confusion
& dirt and flirts
with the purity
of primeval seeds.
Creation is withheld
and deferred into
nauseating circles
of time as smoke. Will
the arrows of Bhishma
pierce into the
respective heads of
kings who do injury
to His intended
animation?
By the sea-side
on a distinct night
a man sat on a
sand-dune and read
the historiography
of stones scattering
them all along
the canvass of
a scintillating earth.
He was Yudhisthira
in his former birth
& Duryodhana in this.
Born out of the
herbal roots of
a negative tree that
changes itself into
a crown when young &
into a clown when old.
The saints pray’d &
worshipp’d, bestow’d
heavenly gifts upon
bastions of measureless
ships heading toward
Eternity.
The hero heavily
breath’d into the
tomb of Taj Mahal
& into the ramparts
of the Red Fort; is
not all history
a museum of death
where insects & moths
burn & dwindle into
mortgaged property?
The hero is
the name of a
shrub that
cantankerously grows
& spreads over the
thin layers of
one’s nerves &
arteries debunking
one system in order
to maintain another.
The hero is a
hermaphroditic glass
of wine who
puts on liquids
of different shades
& colours into
beakers as thin
as finger-nails.
He is the subject
The Indian Hero
108
as well as the
object of history
drawn into the
drama of a
quadrangular scene.
The mean & ratio
of limbs are
determinable but
the import of
the soul trespasses
& goes by.
The world below
is the well of
death into which
the hero jumps
and fathoms deep.
The stars twinkle
in the nether abyss
shining bright in
the blinking eyes
of the serpents
while elephants raise
their trunks in
rage for the
voyage infinite.
The crucible of
Karma wheels round
the death-bed of
a sleeping giant
who makes forsaken
claims to glory.
Kumbhakarna sleeps
on a rock in a
cave imprisoning
tentacles of memory.
The nuptial limbs
of new born babes
wake & sleep &
sleep & wake in
an endless game
of light & shade.
The hero journeys
through regions
that touch the
limits of sky
at various points
in the infinite
below.
The demons wrestle
with shrubs &
genies tear down
trees that grow at
one’s back of the
door.
It was not for
nothing that we
waited for the
hero in the bloody
coups & civil wars
of nations though
he was found in
the unbreakable
architecture of
the limbs of a
boar.
Demons were born
on the fiery
edges of silvery
blades & on the
hills & valleys
of Himalayan mounts.
Parvati pray’d at
Gangotri eating roots
& leaves of trees
whose origins rest
in Shiva.
But Shiva would
not yield.
He became a devil
asking Parvati
to desist from
the impossible.
Gods pray’d &
goddesses but all
in vain.
The Indian Hero
109
Millenia went by
while ages
criss-crossed their
lean & thin legs
to sound the
trumpet of death.
The omkar sound
vibrated the primeval
song of the mother
Ganges & the
nada-brahma sounded
the bull-horn of
creation.
It was all an omen
for the coming
of a hero but Shiva
burnt the lord
of kama with
belching fire from
His third eye. It
all ended with
a bang rolling
stones & conch-shells
into a cocktail
of cerebral pangs.
It was many miles
below and above
but the reins of
the horses could not
be traced as the
hero was a bindu
sitting in the chariot.
It was Arjuna
without Krishna missing
the gems of wisdom
in an aweful world
that is dark &
dreary.
The cat came
along with the dog
and mated a contemporary
song of love &
glory into a contemptuous
story of filth
and disease. Cries
of help wither
into the negative
skies. Crows and
cuckoos tear the
velveteen body into
a finite number of
years.
The hero grows
old and young as
our ego swells or
squeezes into the
circular lanes of
our memory.
The hero is the
name of a place
and a city as well
as a horse who
wins over the
awesome terrain
of the world
becoming a symbol
in the Upanishad.
Infinity grows into
a circumlocutory path
while prayers lose
ground and the
centre disappears
into the mental dungeons
of self-made torture.
Life is a process
that debunks itself
as it goes by while
hero is the name
of a root that
grows from the
mountainous terrain
downing itself into
the nether abyss.
The wintry marigold
flowers bloom & hide
The Indian Hero
110
the secret narrative
of a Virgin Mary
while Jesus weeps within
the clouds of
posterity for not
mating the earth
& the sky.
Flies swarm ears
of sickly dogs while
days roll into the bedroom
of years. It
is history’s infinite
regress that made
the hero’s deportment
a tightened bow. What
portion of the bird
can you hit
with the extreme
pointer of your
life’s arrow?
Arjunas are not born
in assemblies that
tear naked Draupadi’s
clothes. They take
birth in the jungles
where Dronacharyas
live & teach & mould
Destiny.
The changing portions
of a body and mind
shape devils of
disease and gods
of mind’s bliss. In
a cultural show
where gods mate
histories & females
are divinised, ladies
become cantankerous
tissues of a
toothbrush civilization.
Man is an onion
of rootless layers
while woman a
dinosaur of infinite
limbs. Will there
be a mean in the
heavens for the
hero to take
shape and to
earth return?
Nurtur’d in the
Mother’s womb were
heroes no less than
seven. They saw
the sun & moon &
other stars while
their fathers were
warriors mighty.
On a night that
gnarl’d & show’d
its devilish teeth
like a wild cat
in prisons, the
leopard came and
killed the innocent
sleeping babes of
crimson eternity into
furrows leading to
hell.
The hero was in
ire & vow’d to chop
the head off the
body of the devil
before it was
too late. He
was protected from
within & without by
the Lord of lords
who rules over heavens
& cultures of hell.
The hero’s shafts
fell upon the
leopards like falcons
pouncing on their prey.
The Indian Hero
111
The hero was brave
and kind and paused
to think before
delivering the destin’d
blow.
The Mother of seven
mothered for mercy and
the hero would have
yielded but the
leopard chang’d his
bodily costume to
shoot arrows of
irreversible death.
The hero dwindl’d &
multiplied in shape
& volume beyond the
Rock of Ages where
it all ends. The
leopard ran in
fear & awe to save
precincts of his nerves
& arteries but the
pool of water was
the valley of death
& the day was
a nightmare disease.
The hero’s shafts
brought the head off
the leopard’s body
& put it before the
Great Mother.
The caring Mother wept
for the leopard was
the son of a guru.
In the fight of
heroes stars twinkle
& hide the bleeding
wounds of blesphemy while
sun & moon shine
to celebrate
re-creation.
Who is a hero &
who not are questions
riding on tracks
of ignorance. The
lotus eyes know
the truth beyond
the devilish tooth
that eats the sacred
filaments of a
design that is
always undesigned.
Heroes are born
on terraces while
devils on wild
shrubs. In a nightmare
that is a blissful
dream language is
sarcasm flouting at
pretensions of body
and mind. The game
is as endless
as our fictions are.
Let us bury the
dead & wait for
the hero & bury
the hero & wait for
the dead. Is not
that all our
head can think &
forever remain intact?
It was in the
airy nothings &
ethereal regions that
the seeds of creation
lay spread. The valleys
bemoan’d & the hills
for the hero was
a hermaphroditic tissue
who became a creeper
sucking the vitals of
a tree.
It was here by the
riverside & the
The Indian Hero
112
sea-shore that the
hero play’d an endless
game with flowery female
emanations of myriad
kinds.
He loved & flirted &
danced & rejoiced in
perennial fountains of
death and generation.
Is that what it means
to be a hero in
a state of hibernation?
The swollen chaos
was the earth &
volcanoes made mountains
of stone & mud. The
elemental seeds outgrew
their size & contour
bringing forth a
being named Brahma.
He had a daughter
by the oak tree
who was the Book
of Life but her
father was lost
from the charted
territory of creation.
The hero grew lustily
mad on the stems
of vegetation &
upon the primeval
Rock of Ages. The
Book of Life was
pregnant with the
diurnal Book of
Death for the
hero as father was
a misappropriation in
a world recreated by
Freud.
The child-hero
play’d games & jump’d
into the river & made
pebbles & trees & man
live in the harmony
of nations.
Is hero the crux
of a concept or the
tip of an iceberg or
a life & death system
millennium old? The
story has furrow’d
thus far as it will
surely go on the
endless path of gold
& grass & beetles &
brass all in the
ephemeral market easily
sold.
Half of the Hero’s
age was lost in
self-meditation while
the rest pass’d
in moulding cartoon
frescoes of his abnegated
self.
It was with the
birth of the biosphere
that Brahma was born
upon the roots of
the Aswattha tree.
The hero became
sabda-brahma in the
eternalised moments
of a temporal time. But
the eternity became
Time and the sacred gap
destroy’d the holy
temple within where
the hero lived.
The hero became a
boar as floods in
the Ganges captured
cities and trees which
The Indian Hero
113
fell by the roadside.
The globe seem’d a ghost
& the ghost bore the tusks
of a boar.
The boar was a
minimal point in the
seven layers of a
universe proportionately
made tenfold.
The dead silences
multiplied within &
the communication was
lost in the atomic
activity of dissimulated
formation.
The egg-shell from
within is a vortex
that reflects images
of the self made
on snowish sand-dunes
of a distant desert.
The diameters multiply
within & reach infinite
pores of destined
embankments that stop
rushing waters of
life.
The hero as boar
lost touch with God
as the sabda-brahma
became sabda with a
finite geometrical identity.
It was from the
hero as boar that
the darkness spread
round the corners of the
globe. The globe
contracted its corridors
into a fivefold mansion
of air, earth, ether,
fire & water in timbers
of gold that was
the hero’s body.
When God saw His
creation He left it
in throngs of disgust
& retired hurt. The
boar desired to
procreate but it all
dissolved into
fissiparous membranes
frozen like hard
crusts of coconuts
in a world where
night after the
day is never the
day after the night.
The hero lives in
a city made manifold
mysterious by regions
of heaven & hell &
by vegetative consciousness
that engulfs and
spreads round the
imaginable corners of
the globe.
The hero and the
city are a chariot
who interchange their
constellatory positions
round the iron wheel of
desire all along the
longitudinal league of
nations.
The hero becomes
the orb of fire
percolating deep portals
of the ninefold
city that he inhabits.
The wheel of Time
has three naves &
spokes five that
hold tertiary terrestrials
of existential fragmentation
into an array of
The Indian Hero
114
six peripheries.The
axle of the wheel
is a life-line of
years, months, days
& spheres that make
triangles & hexagones
of substance & proportion.
The pole-stars north
& south guide the
wheel while the
seven horses drive
chariots of conscience
in a charming nosegay
of seven meters.
Thunder in the east
balances water in
the west while the
northern bliss faces
death in the south
making a destiny
of sorts. The sun rays
drive deep into the
zodiacal circle &
enthrob constellatory
vibrations with moments
of life & death.
Mount Meru stands
aloof & solitary as
the abode of gods
where self-resplendent
courts of Brahma send
sun rays back to
their origin.
The windy speed
of the sun traverses
pole-stars below the
earth & above until
it reaches an equinoctial
marriage wherein lie
the roots of the
hero & his origin.
The benedictory rays
extend their transfigural
lineaments & embrace
the ideational watery
surface that is the
human blood. They
transform it into
vapours of infinitesimal
substance which pours
back upon the mortal
cities of watery
imagination like Mother
Ganges falling down
the depths of Himalayan
valleys amid crowds
of tiny trees &
devadars of sublime
imagination.
The sun is the
hero as well as the
hero’s father who
copulates with a
slushy earth many-a-time
during nights of
adventure & awe. It
soaks earth’s generative
moisture transferring it
to the icy-cool citadel
of the moon who passes
them all to the waiting clouds
through godly dews
& tubes of air which
make an array of
smoke & fire &
wind & vapour.
When the wind
breaks thin membranes
piercing their filamental
value into ratios of
watery fluids, it
rains over deeps &
hills & new babes are
born upon holy vernal
eves. They all
The Indian Hero
115
grow like five
Pandavas nourished upon
the ambrosial milk
of a tree whose name
is Kunti.
In the forest gardens
or by the river sides
heroes play their childish
games & show valour in
volatile deeds that
will uproot hills.
The earth is the
interiormost of caves
that shakes its hands
with the seven continents
that spread round the
carnal desire of
seven infernal seas.
The earth is shap’d
like a lotus-leaf that
gathers continental
driblets & makes them
rotate into mortal
rounds. A range of
outstretching eight mountains
divides the galaxy of
stars into an insubstantial
nine years of days
& nights & nights &
days.
In the middle, like
a pillar, stands
decade’s last year
which lays the foundation
of the golden Meru
mountain where gods
& goddesses live.
A mango tree sky-rockets
into the navel-vacuum
of space & spreads
its tinsel songs of
memory in a diameter
as long & wide as
the gaze of mortal eyes.
The mango fruits
that fall down the
cavities of the earth
from a height of graceful
skies change into fragrant
juices which inflame
directions with odours
sweet.
The huge canvas
of a weeping earth
beneath which the river
gently flows leaves
mounts of sand &
mud on its twin
shores. The battling
wind sweats it out
with a crimson sun
& dries up the slushy
mud in a single cocktail
of months & days.
The earth becomes a
summit of gold put on
the foreheads of goddesses
by their respective gods.
It was here on a
day that the moon
show’d blackholes not
in the repertories of
space but in the
solitary graveyard
that the hero is.
The sun did no better
than expose to light
the dark, dreamy clusters
of hero’s negative
being. The hero was
born to sun & moon
on a wintry afternoon.
The chiming galaxy of
stars hugged & sang
The Indian Hero
116
lullabies. The hero
fell meteor-like on
a day when his father
rested & mother slept.
That has made all
the difference between
earth and eternity.
The hero was given
a name that owed
nothing to his origins.
His rootlessness made him
live among the Babylonian
harlots like sanguine-babes
thrown into the
factory-chimneys.
The hero was the
Promised Land though
desert as well. When
he became a burden upon
his brethren they killed
him for their pleasure.
He is the extreme
limit of the Sinai
desert but no body
dug him enough to
discover the water
beyond or map his
claims of the Promised
Land.
The hero is living
in a crucified silence
for his mother still
sleeps while his father
has become restive after
fertility rituals.
In tears that
rend dense conscientious
forests as under and
in rivers that perennially
flow into mountains of bliss
a child weeps
on the tender
leaves of a yellow
tree that becomes
red in the layered
density of the
earth below and white
in celestial regions
beyond skies.
The leaf mated with
the flower & the
flower with the
stem to produce a
gem among the gennies
that would ignorance
devour. Sage Kapila
sat in stupefying
mediatation to kill
the infernal sons of
Sagara who look’d
for steed in self-defeating
sinuous karmas that
renewed pledges of
jealousy over concubine
rounds of infidelity
& deceit.
Generations perished
till the child became
a hermaphroditic being
reclining upon the Rock of
Ages. His nephew
sounded conch-shells
of death for nuptial
regeneration. In our
search for the
hero the forests burn’d
& skies blaz’d.
Ashoka pillars stood
silent as gods of
eternity in archetypes
of peace & dignity
where hero comes, sits
& meditates in visionary
forms made & unmade
in the Dimond Body of
Buddha.
The Indian Hero
117
It was the hero as
desire who became
a horse & got lost
in shrouding forests.
The horse became a ball
whose circle rested on
ratio & mean.
It were these two
that created the carcass
of a man who
once became a god
& then a boar. Out
of this logic of
god and man and god
in man is a hero
born in mountainous
moments that eclipse
the wrath of eternity.
This wrath made
Indra ruin the virgin
land by rain & thunder
but Krishna’s wrath
was that of a
Saviour which saved
the land by raising
Govardhana in the
mind and soul of
the living beings.
By informing sinewy
threads that weave
the body of imagination
into layers of
conscience, the hero
became a cowherd boy
playing flute upon the
houses that are
self-made & unmade
in existential moments
of flickering & thickening
glory.
The hero milks
cows of gold & silver
while the cows carry
gods & goddesses in
peanuts of memory
within the figural
mansion of their
lustrous bodies making
them Destiny’s stray
strokes.
The cowherd hero
rests in pyramidial
forests to shake the
linear lineaments of
his successor. The
forests emit radiations
that glide past
history into notations
divine.
The belching fire
from the forest
makes a diagram of
ashes & bones. The
hero inhales the
fire into infinitized
parameters of the
soul as the space is
measured into taal
and laya.
The nada becomes
a folk-lore bride
of seasons as the
cowherd hero sings hymns
primeval. The nada
marries the hero &
the hero becomes a
globe whose inside
is the world & outside
a galaxy of stars.
From the ground below
the earth rises a voice
that is a demon
& god in onemute,
musical, soothing
& devouring. The hero
The Indian Hero
118
is a peanut resting
on the skin of a
fish that swims
across existential
shores of destiny in
diabolic dances of
illusion supreme.
The cowherd hero
goes into the waters
becoming a serpent
encircling space into
a ball. It is the
ball that he searches
into mavericks of
hope that bring his ruin
& disaster.
The earth emitted
mist & fire while
the wire of iron
desire churned the
ocean of love into
the waves of hatred.
The hemispheric earth
stood nude before God
while tales of time
wagged their tails
into divisions & sub-divisions
of space. The earth
became a canonized
scriptural canon spread
over the destin’d
Book of History.
Gods assemble’d & demons
over the linear
diameters of a figural
earth. The space
subsided into nooks
& corners to write a
marriage of heaven
& hell. The eternal
soul’s frescoes glean’d
into sundry sun-rays
that go beyond the
finitized portions
of being.
The being is a
civilian freeport of
desire where cargo
& men ascend and
descend to unknown
routes. It was
a huge mass of
earth & stone that
became the axle-wheel
of conflicting desire.
Cognition got into
shape the Vasuki snake
pull’d on either side
by the pillars of
heaven & those of
hell.
In the rounds of
mortality, death &
generation were enamels
of gold & silver & bronze
that gods fought with
devils to capture.
In a city where
sky-scrappers stood as
slums of human imbroglio
the hero could do
nothing but mock
himself in mirrors
that disfigure his
being. The hero as
god stood in the
middle of the
whirling mass to
open Chapter One of
the Gita.
He was a monument
of corporate desire
enveloping soul
into the body. The
The Indian Hero
119
elements ruffl’d &
muff’d their way up
& down the road to
the minarets of self.
The central wheel
stood on nothing
so the hero became
a tortoise holding
space on a platter
of human conscience.
The space began rising
into misty clouds
& beyond the contours
of self it went.
The hero pressed it
from above & the
space squeezed into
the navel of hero
as Brahma.
This contraction smirch’d
the body like dry
cataracts falling
on stray stones
below. So the hero
expanded from below
& the earth was held
in balance by a
meditating Buddha whose
middle path annulled
designs of the devil
Mara into inessentials
of an ethereal hollow.
The candle desires
of devils stick, burn
& turn pale into
regions where sky is
the limit of human
pathos. The hero
as Buddha sat on
the pavement of Destiny
to write a few pages
on the meditational
middle.
The churning of the
sea of origins leaves
one in doubt of his
origins. Moments, hours,
days & years are
fictions that man
wove into the
imprisoning nets of
a bipolar bifurcation.
The hero is neither
man nor god but
an entity inbetween
emanating from the
navel and marching up
to the head. The logic
of the middle is a nocturnal
nector of bliss
that surpasses knowables
of time into mysterious
spaces of the Buddha-body.
In pre-natal meditation
gods pray’d & devils
while the primitive dance
of death & life
continued unabated on
the surface of human
desire & on the deserted
streets of Jerusalem.
When the hero was
alive they call’d him
a devil of myriad diseases;
when he died they
call’d him their
Saviour. In a ritual
of life & death the
story continues as
life & death do. The
hero is hang’d in mad
moments of infernal
time but the hanging
continues.
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120
The god of fire
spread into spatial
dimensions of a
mysterious width & depth
which the mind can’t
measure. The world
became a flaming
globe of relentless
desire in moments where
light flickers & goes
amid shades of
eternal truth.
The bodily passages
inhale breaths of
Nirvana in a cocktail
culture of dream
& deceit. Is not
hero the root of
a tree which does
not have seeds when
it grows? The
horror of replica breeds
into nostrils creating
mansions of smoke. In
a cadaverous sweep
of the genitals of
beauty gennies augur
well for the onset of
rain & the birth
of a being who
exists in a boar.
It is not sudden
for history to drench
itself in deluge
and submerge its
sins of prudery committed
over the harlots of
innocence. It was
the harlot Jesus
ate the food of &
not the sign-board king
of signatures lost to
the winds.
The harlot as Jerusalem
was in gay abandon in
times one can only
remember in the
dirt of one’s finger-nails.
When Thou Shall Not’
was writ on the
doors to the
corridors of freedom
humanity was jailed
behind self-made
prisons of conscience.
In a land where
shrubs grow into
shibboleths measuring
proportions into a
Destiny, the figure
dies on the bamboo-poles
at the outskirts of a
village that is a
mirror to civilization.
The Meru mountains
backlash the backbone
they otherwise form
while ethereal stars
filter galaxies of space
into idealised corners
of the globe & into
the diamond-zones
round the polar body
of Buddha. The lotus
blooms into the wings
of a fish who hides
the secret narrative
of lives & deaths
within the delicate
arteries of her
female limbs.
The fish became Eve
encircling horizontal
& vertical axis into
the pyramid of
a body that was
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121
Adam. In an
Adamic surprise, Eve
became the statue
of liberty pressing
demons & gods into
one.
Is liberation a
solid ensemble of
dead & dreary material
lodg’d into the
pitholes of an
insipid nation’s mind?
The hero struggles
and breaks loose on
the deserts of Sinai
& on the icy patches
of a frozen Antarctica
where sand & snow
relate themselves
into a life-story of
moisture & mass. Is
not that what
life is all about—
a system of cross-referentiality
& migratory jazz?
The bouquets of
wrath swelled into
the foaming waters
where the genesis
of form is. The
formal lineament is
the figure of Dadhichi
who is a figure
framed into the
life-bones of a bow
that the hero as
god took to kill
demons within.
Durvasa cursed but
the tender blooming
of the would-be hero
prospered into infinite
limits of the sky. In
a moment of stillness
the motions of the
earth were paralysed
into cascades of
solidified glory where
passions freeze but
intentions glow into
tertiary spaces that
incense the mortal being.
The hero is a
cantankerous shrub
sprawling on to the
jungles of infantile
secretive memory
where the hub of
the wheel rotates
gyres of mortality &
death. The wheel is a
layered pyramid writing
short stories of small
incidents that constitute
the history of man.
The wheel is Time’s
whirling machine that
refutes all forms of
cognition into nosegays
of no-thing-ness. History
is a marble-statue of
monuments that the hero builds
round the circular corner—
stones of Destiny
laying them in the
self-same cemetry of
seasons.
Hero’s visions are lost
into graveyards of memory
& into the graphics of
a video-machine that
Time has invented over
years which endlessly
come & go.
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122
The hero goes up &
down in regions by mortality
unbound. The sagas of
death become statues
of life in primitive,
ancestral monastries of
pilgrims to eternity.
The hero is a fragrance
vomitting ambrosial
nector at the root of
trees that stand silent,
crucified by the calm
sea-shore.
The hero’s parents
filter nostalgia of
smoke into a dithering
valley of tears. From
the waters below rises
a being breathing life
into the nostrils of
air. The being is a
lion moulded into the
fibres of a body
that is man.
A son is born into
the death-bed arms
of this lion-man
who goes down beyond
the rocks & stones of
the journey of years &
months. The son is
a hero in disguise
trampling fetters
of destiny down into
the ransacked corridors
of insalubrious conscience.
The finger-nails of
hero’s father cut across
crimson stories that
weave narrative in a
fictional paradise of
gods & goddesses. The
ozone layer is broken
like skies that didn’t
rain. The hero breathes
God & lives Him in his
actions of self-signature
that draw contours of
his identity into a
framework of his
vision.
The hero is thrown down
the ignorant elephants
& tied down the
pillars of a pseudo-fate
that binds only
his body and not mind.
In an iron-age of
paradisal tears the
hero lives on a doctrinaire
dose of relentless
pleasure. He thrives
on rope-ways & razor-edges
that sing the self-same
song in pitiless glory.
The hero is a
camel of desert &
a fish of water that
swims and roams in
gay abandonment of
creation. What is
life to one is death
to the other. The
camel is into the
fish & the fish into
the inclement weather.
It was underneath secret
of generations of men
& women that the
seed of creation was laid.
On the even & uneven
ground of man’s insubstantial
wrath rested a basement
for endless years.
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123
The grass that grew
turn’d pale & the
seed became a
woman of ideas unloosening
her hairs like diamond
arcades of jewels
marble white in their
content tightening tentacles
upon the shrinking boughs
of a tree where man
learnt his primary lessons
in primitive love &
innocence.
The woman put on
clothes to hide gifts
bestow’d by eternity
whereas man stole the
limelight by fornicating
with the sacred memory
of seasons. In the
hope that the hero
will come we waited upto
the nuptial hours of
sweet chiming bell
issuing from the
nostril-tops of the
churches of Nativity.
We pray’d in a lineage
of descent in order
to present our credentials
to mirroring gods within
our self-portfolios.
Reality was a pillar
of concrete where the
Truth became subsidized
into the crimson lips of
infantile cromozones.The
hero became a prism
shot into the test-tube
of inhuman conscience.
In self-made, love-laced
labs of creativity
heroes are sacrificed
upon graves where lilacs
bloom & fade in fumes
that gasp for breath.
Breathing spaces are
crepuscular zones where
cows filter life-milk
to comrades of Krishna.
Krishna is a hero
who lives in comrades
many of whom die in
the triangular space
created for the architecture
that is human form. It
is a form of possibility
which happens but never
quite—a form which is
formless in spite of
being a formal archetype.
The seed sprouted on
a thin, clownish layer
of seasonal briars
filtering shadows into
the ramparts of the
pagodas sprawling across
soul’s celestial horizons.
It was not a tree
but Darwin’s Ape that
broke the tinsel crust
of the shell that was
history as a monolith.
The acrobatic Ape jump’d
over vacuities of space
that render filaments
of blood possible. Ape’s
one jump was good enough
for a pond to filter
into milky-ways of
rivers where spices
add to the perfume of
numerical space. Ape’s
other jump created mountains
of crimson bliss which
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124
shudder & turn pale
into infinite shadows
of eternity.
The Ape was a future
Buddha though at present
a dangling man of
doubtful desire. He
sat in meditation over
cypher when the nuptial
corridors melted into the
vibrancies of space. The
mountain rose high
as the Ape jump’d low.
It is from below that
the height is what
it seems as it is from
above that the deep is
a bellowing valley of
tears.
The hero weeps here
in order not to get
to the shape of a man
for that will make a
history of ideas.
It is joy enough to
remain an Ape in
relation to a man
that is Time’s blunder.
The hero is a
tomb where carasses
lay in eternal slumber.
The tomb breathes rats
in its sighs of
woe. The rats jump
over & enter into
the silken-pores of
hero’s dead lion-body
lying over purgatory
spaces often hanging
in the wells of hell.
The mountains dazzl’d
in crusts of snow
upon the ‘slouching’ posture
of a tortoise that rests
the mud-earth upon
its sound semantic
structure of corridors
& doors where winds
infiltrate & snub the
entry of Jesus not
born of Mary.
Joseph became a rat
in the valley of tears where nets
for mouse-traps spread
over innocent babes of
vegetative imagination.
The rat ran high &
low cutting across
threads of an imprisoning
memory. Owls became
crows like weather-beaten
souls; cuckoos shattered
remnants of an
infantile
conscience.
Flakes of snow
melt into the reverential
rivers of space in
a territory of unfertilised
seasons. The rat is
an image of man
who is a hero in
moments that idealise
reality into figures
of speech. The
difference between a living
bone and a statue
is the difference
between an idea &
an image. They
intermarry in glacial
times in regions of
Antarctika & in
the summer months
of June.
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The purgatories of
hell & those of
Paradise exist in
a mutual relation
of lustreless culture.
Heroes are born on
shrubs & on the
rocks which do not
breed nor multiply.
The road to Zanadu
may be a road
to the self-made pleasures
of heaven but the
road to the self
is a crimson song
of pity and fear. Let
heroes learn it
in order that Christs
become Buddhas in
an eternal play of
light & shade. The
caricatures of flesh
& blood roam & loiter
to put on colours of
a heavenly space.
The hero is the whim
of a fancy that
is frenzy too. In
a crazy world of
crooked crows skies
loiter about and float
upon the clownish surface
of desire.
Clusterless ideas
grow in groups
of crowded madness
where meaningless meetings
devour the tender
leaves of trees that
have shed their prime
lustre of youth in
an age that is old
& begotten early.
Spaces become compass
measuring distances in
relationships of proportions
& means- yielding nothing
but the cyphers of
being. In a motley
body moulded & shaped
by a multi-racial
weather, the myth
of origin goes into
a rat’s hole where
the chiming bells
greet the new born
babe.
The crowds await
rhythms of conscience
whose reins are
in the hands of
Arjuna. He is a
hero diluting good
& evil in a framework
of untempered zone.
You cannot dilute
milk in water in a
growing culture of
‘everlasting no.’
Krishna waits & sees
the debacle & makes
the hero rise to
the sun & his
potentiality show.
The hero is a tiny
shell shooting like
a star in the arid
skies. He sits upon
the globe of his
configurated nerves
& arteries that empty
his being into
enertias of space.
In the Sinai desert
& in the marshy places
wherever the bushes
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126
grow & flowers blush,
a lady is seen hatching
eggs of confirmity
in the blue green
garden of Eden. These
eggs are an exercise
in Adamic surprise
for they fire & flicker
in moony-nights and
make tinsel-songs of
memory and delight.
Life is originally a
hole which Bhishma could
not fill nor could
overcome. Was it
good for the hero to
deliver gems of wisdom
as those in Bhagavadgita?
Or was it enough for
him to write a
Bible of seasons
where autumn play’d
the mother? He could
even have rested
content with a theory
of negation that
affirmed negation in
the negative.
The positive became
a lady-recluse, helpless
like a forlorn Draupadiforlorn
in spite of
a valiant army of
kings wandering in
the deserts of
memory and death.
Life is not a
game of chess nor
a fictive story
mugg’d up into white
spaces of the skin-canvas
of animals and birds.
It is a spinning
ball thrown over
areas which become
a circle of reason
making happen the
death of Jesus. The
hero is born where
the death is for
else he cannot come.
Death is hero’s life
for our lives end
where his begins. Death
is a religion and
a ritual that draws
the hero out of a
simple man for the
rest is all fiction
growing into the
territorial integrity of
negation.
In the spatial centre
infinitesimal, the
newly-wed bride waits
for the hero-husband
who is lost in the
clouds of eternity.
The clouds became a
downpour of the
crowds of rain-drops
imprisoning patchy
regions of stray ideas
into confiscated goods.
The hero wanders
in the senile desert
streets of a slushy-
market changing his
fragmented scenario of
bones and meat into a
glory of seasons. The
sun does not grow
but is from eternity
unlike beings self-made
& self-consumed. The
hero is likewise not
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127
born but is within
the birth, not grown
but is within the earth.
It was here down
the lane by the riverside
of years gone by that
the sensuous wind
copulated with a
material sky in order
to produce a thermodynamic
song of capsulating
caterpillars.
The hero grew in a
test-tube round the
iron-labs of nursuryrhymes
where the
teachers taught the
primary lessons of
love and hate in a
language torn by tyrannical
systems of reality.
The donations of words,
images and metaphors
were given to a
nervous system of
gunas, systole and
diastole to write
a pensive seasonal song.
The fabric of narrative
woven into the
toxic morphology of
texts is a fictive
narrative of motionless
reality neither seen
nor heard within the
chronological sequence
of history.
In a motley of
costumes & colours
figures emanate in
rotundities that are
their own causes &
effects.
The numbers swell’d
into galaxies of
space while the space
became a village-bride
living in a hut by
the river-side. The
hero plays here and
sings songs eternal
of coming and going.
Is that not what
philosophy is all about—
a saga of nothing &
all other things?
In the zoo of
monumental memories
tiny plants grow
on the surface of
infernal desire.Volcanoes
erupt like inviolable
sphota rays having
sounds that infinitize the
limitless sky.
The weather-born soul
flutters wings of
imagination & sinews
of strength in an
array of burning fountains.
The frogs cry for
rain while the rain
sucks the humidity of
conscience. In the
eternal sound of stones
rolling one over the
other, identities are
made & broken in a
thankless token of girls
who are eternal mothers.
The water gushes forth
fast and grim where
endless cyclic rhythms
of life & death take
incarnations in moments
that make time possible.
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128
The hero is a stone—
statue of days, months,
years and millenia all
growing compact upon
the tip of an iceberg.
The hero is an island
where the concubine
soul mates with a
dedicated male without
progenital fears of
yester years. The
carvan makes a figural
transpiratory system
of limbs, veins, nose
and glacial arteries.
The Garden of Eden
made the hero live
in an unheroic way
upon solitary crimson—
nights that glitter’d
like a day where buffoons
enjoy the wisdom of
saints in a metaphysical
way. The wisdom was
cheated by the utter
femininity of limbs
grown like arcades
amid thorns upon Adam’s
fountain springs of innocence
& glory.
Memory was born like
a step-child upon the
blades of grass at
Eden. Adam fell as
did Eve into the
gluttony of bilabial plosives
that were not a paradigm
of sphota. Bhartihari
wept as did Panini &
Jesus over the death
of tongue at Babel.
Hero is not a combination
of meat & bones that
we can produce at will.
It is in the non-heroic
that the hero lives.
It is in the transubstantial
non-substantials that the
substantial lives.
The moment of hero’s
triumph was defeat’s
solitary landscape lost
to seasonal variation. The
hero did not come though
the prison-gates were
open till the midnight.
The sister Ganges receded
to its layers of
bottom-limits & sign’d
the treaty of negative
affirmation with Destiny.
The healing touch of
Jesus begot harlots who
carried divine orbs within
the enfoldments of their
life. The devil diffused
life into death in a
process acquiring momentum
that carried a sort of
continuity in itself. This
continuity is but a
progenital urge surging
across vegetative babes
of watery imagination.
Blakean horses of wrath
& instruction humanly
masquarade upon the
silent streets of Jerusalem
where a crow often sits
upon flakes of ice
that occasionally fall
during winter months.
Jesus wept as did
Buddha failing to write
a story of love. They
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129
were heroes shouldering
East & West on the
myth of origins which
was an inconclusive story.
Hero is not the name
of a Destination which is
a convenient myth of the
pedallers of Time. Destination
is a myth as are
chunks of sordid
civilization. What can
the hero do to a world
which is like the dog’s
curl’d tail infested with
a defective Holy Grail?
The hero play’d upon
green baskets of land
caricatured by a loose
sally of temperament. Images
often gather to mimic
the elemental show which
is a flow of illusory Ganges
upon Newtonian ratios
of mind. The tribal clowns
flourish upon nauseating
pills of fiery imagination
& filter the pierglass
of time’s incredible regularity.
Cuckoos crow in spring
& the rain bird looks
down upon the earth for
upwards she cannot see
where sun & stars shine
in the dark of utter
blanket night. What is
hero’s blood made of ?—
Of country tales & taboos
of old? Or of the
lethal sun-shine at
mountain peaks & glaciers
divine that flow into
self-made cascades of
infinite glory making
room for infantility though?
In a logic that carries
its perforated ills in
proportions sad and tragic
the heroic lineaments grow
mystic. What is definable
is not heroic as indefinable
is non-heroic too.
The hero is not a name
but a frame which does
not fit in anywhere. He
is the name of a self-made
game that one plays
for shame or fame.
It was on slushy conscientious
ground that the hero
himself found unbound by
a legacy of hierarchical
rounds. Circles enlume
the without & colour the
empty space in a cut-throat
competition of nights &
days.
In a village temple
gangs are blown by
family members having
astrological mounts that
go down & come up in
a continuous exercise
of rise and fall. What
more do we expect from
mortal limbs rotating in
a journey full of gall?
The hero is a shrub
that doth grub underneath
panicky waters of contaminated
memory. How can one
write about or propose
a theory of narratology
when time is missing from
the essential rudiments
of an endless eternal
story?
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130
It was a rupturous mixture
of motley colours that
bred infinity into the
temporal tents of
paltry life. Trees
stood erect showering
innocent leaves on self-made
canopies of conscience.
The hero had wives as
many as numbers could go
even after their multiplication
but the hero could not
come to breathe in the fires
of crude temptation.
In a land where
Sita is banish’d along
with her lord, morality
becomes a sharpened statue
of horn’d deceit having
holes in mind. How can then
we ask for the birth
of a being who shapes
granules of sugar on
the sheets of water that
melt and dissolve into
eternal laughter?
Inertias of space dissolve
into the hieroglyphics of
cave-temples that stand
erect, straight despite
the onslaught of time.
Green paddy fields
magnify their beatific
majesty into marigold
flowers blooming in the
courtyard of conscience.
Is their someone to look
within and unearth the
goary visage of the
hero lying in volcanic
slumber?
Let us take few
blades of grass &
make a motley brush
of colours to map contours
on the infinite horizontal
canvas that gives us
visions of eternity.
Is hero a shrub
that grows on the
garbage heap of endless
cries only to shut its
growth and itself cut?
The hero slowly march’d
along the endless
path of a tathagata.
The virility of carrying
the wheel within one’s
system of bones & arteries
is no easy task, so
Siddhartha could not
become Buddha in the
flicker of a morning glory.
The canticles to soul’s
enmeshing net flock &
block the velveteen
carpet beyond-a beyond
that is always a beyond
for yonder all that is
there is a history of
pygmies, dwarfs, cowards
and co-sharers who write
Thou Shalt Not’ on
windows to the godhood.
The hero comes here &
weeps bucketfuls of
filtered water. Could
this water sip through
the insubstantials of
space that they are
metamorphosed into the
majestic body of Jesus
made of eternal bread
& wine & butter-all
into a beauty-soap?
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131
The hero dances the
caliban dance of
love and destruction
for death culminates
climaxes as it absorbs
limits of time & space
into its body of stones,
sulphur and manganese.
The hero is a hermaphroditic
being who breaks the
golden-egg of clashing
sun-beams that copulate
& multiply for order
in Nature. It is in
his body as mountain
that the hero outpours
torrential rain sending
it down below into
seasonal rivers & lakes,
ponds & arcades, that
are his blood.
The hero is the
name of a poem where
symbols infiltrate into
tertiary images of the
realities of sand making
them blooming archetypes
of conscience. The
hero’s body is a novel
too where characters
love, play and die
into the drama of death
images recklessly thrown
asunder by Shiva’s
tandava.
The hero is death as
well as life & resurrection.
It is all a game of
chess where pawns are
placed at moving moments
of vital intersection.
We all gaz’d toward
empty skies for the
uncertain future that
might boomrang upon the
clownish landscape of
crocodile seasons. Eternity
stood in the small palm
of one’s hand in the
form of a seed which
never sprouted. It
was the seed of a
hero who could not
break open the tiny
gates of prison where
Krishna was lodg’d
along with His mother.
It was the golden
egg-shell that the
hero could not break
unlike Brahma who did.
The difference between
life and death is
one that separates
nirvana from samsara in
a round of Buddhist wheel.
The fires of death
produce demons who
but enlume the self
in a game with Not-Self.
Shiva rises from the
stone-linga to overlook
a crowded train passing
through the jungles
of memory. The hero
is an infinitesimal point
beyond atomic precision
of length and breadth.
Shiva engulfs fires of
death into His jaws
for He is death’s self-sole
Master. He is also
hero’s congenital father
transplanted from the
earthly to the divine
curvatures of conscience.
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132
The courtyard sapling
grows into the rhythms
of a tree masquarading
elephantine stature. The
hero goes just when
he could have come. The
hero comes just when
he could have gone.
It is in this typical
gong that there lies
eternal song.
In the fertility myths of
kaleidoscopic metaphor
the limbs of the hero
are scatter’d all
over Himalaya & Gangetic
plains. The hero has
no mother nor father.
He is a self-constituted
progeny of his sacred
lineaments. He is
himself. In himself
he grows, is born
& succumbs to temporal
injuries. The rituals
& dogmas are but a
sort of fornication which
produce the materiality
of a spiritual being.
The hero is a hymn of
Eternity that people
listen, care for & nourish
within the coteries of
their conscience & in
Time’s unbreakable frame
of reference. Let us
all bury our temporal
tents as part of
preparation for soul’s
heavenly entrance.
The Indian Hero


My Final Dress

by

Prof Charu Sheel Singh

My Final Dress

Life -- an undefeatable event
made by me a fatigue creature
like an insect creeping here & there
having no shelter, no destination, no mentor.
I got what I wished
I wished for no satisfaction
like a stranger in an Island
wishes to built a cabin in the air.
Love, friendship and relations
all are but like formal trousers
are dresses for show and pomp
and at last_ night-white gown.
Death must be remembered
must_ must_ must_ must_
for becoming a human race
good in the eyes of God—the commander of death.

From:
Dr. Valiurrahaman
Assistant Professor in English
SRMSCET, Bareilly,
UP, INDIA