‘It is almost revolting, the toxicity of our state,’ said a Mr. Hans
To the people of all colour, all caste, of all religion,
‘We believe in no discrimination,’ whispered he in the darkness of a shed.
The heat of the circumstance ate up from within and without,
Blood sweat pooled around Munu’s left temple,
His mother inched further in horror; a blood tear stream ran its course
On the contours of her face, tugging at her weary sari pallu, she wiped clean his temple.
‘Shhh,’ Mr. Hans of a complex siyasat whispered to quieten the sudden bloody hullabaloo.
Munu’s mother, a withering mess of sorrow, quaked with a shattering climax,
Bloody trail of tears out of which a root took birth,
A dark green leaf popped first, followed by an angry ruby red flower
‘Munnu, my Munnu, my child,’ Munnu’s mother wailed as the earth absorbed the last of him.
Thunderstruck, the people fell silent; a horror-struck expression covered the curves and crevices of their flat, round and oblong faces.
Munnu’s mother turned, absorbing the angry red like a silent, waiting sponge.
Now a full red on a full moon, she shone,
A thunderstorm took the world in a whirl,
Eruptions moved the length and breadth of the mighty and the puny,
The mother now stood, the stream of bloody tears almost frozen,
With each step she took, she scattered stars in space,
A feral stance she possessed as her body embraced the Nataraja’s dance.
With each movement of her outstretched arm, time and space came to a standstill,
occupying each expression, each emotion. Resting on each mudra,
Greeting the very essence.
With her long black strands elegantly distributed in the directions of the five elements,
She inched towards a meditative stance,
Her third eye itched open in the fullness of time,
Destroying all forms and norms by fire and restored rest.
Birth and death, a mere cosmic performance.
Display Picture Credit: https://qz.com/india/1759244/a-brief-history-of-nataraja-the-dancing-hindu-god-shiva/
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