Rashmirathi

I have been a great fan of Mahabharata. This poem is describing a moment where Kunti tells Karna about his real parents and asks him to join the war from the Pandava’s side. At that point Karana’s views on the war and his approach towards it is reflected in poem. The poem is a literary master piece, I have tried my hands on the translation, have not been able to do entire justice with the piece but I hope this appeals to you.

When I see, I see Kurukshetra the land of war,
I see the dance of death on humanity, not so far,
The earth soaked and drenched in sweats and blood stains,
Still unstoppable Parth’s Chariot remains.

Lord Krishna himself is fading the darkness of the evil,
The destiny changing its course at Arjun’s will,
A million wasteful traps when the enemy plays,
But every time victorious does he stays.

I know mother what would happen tomorrow,
This epic war would only end in sorrow,
All the consequences do not scare me in my mind,
Rather double the enthusiasm in myself I find.

The times are scary, and the death is impending,
Invitations of death for list of people is unending,
All men of the world would face the wrath of the war,
The face of the earth would be left with a scar.

Nothing would be left towards the end,
No joys would victory bring with itself to spend,
The path on which Kurus would meet their destiny,
Would it be different from what would be Pandava’s epiphany.

There is only one way no matter you win or lose,
In the end it’s the country of death one has to choose,
The end would not change irrespective of any excuse,
Whether you killed the enemy or suffered the deadly bruise.

So meaningless is this war of the inflated egos,
Equally meaningless are mine and Parth’s vows,
Even then we find ourselves, impossible to stop,
And gradually on the path set by the death we hop.

The rivers of life has its unusual speed,
Beyond the human understanding are its deeds,
The brute force which engulfs everything in its way,
To finally lose itself when it reaches the oceans’ fray.

The waves, the flow all goes and quietly it sails,
All that remains in history is its tale,
In the end all of it merges into one,
Like a statue to clay with shape left in is none.

Same is the destiny of Kurkshetra that would survive,
Where the statues of this land, with each other would collide,
The end would be the same as the destiny of this land,
The warriors amidst this war will meet their end.

But this worry and concern of the end, I have to let it go,
However it is, let the sun of tomorrow rise and grow,
All around its difficult to see a small ray of light,
The darkest it seems to be is the passing night.

When the sun and the moon blend in darkness,
The lovers of light hope for some rays to be blessed,
Then the brighter comet cometh this way,
And light on the graveyard it does sprays.