I shall watch. But no, nothing is as it was to be. Only the festering battlefield and no fate like Karna’s to elevate the mire. No sermon ready for faith, no cosmic peep to contextualise the madness. No sword but these arms, and no code of worthwhile sacrifice but the certainty of ‘kshay.’ There is no exit. The question bites like an insect: what do we do about this? I will watch as you ask.





Prahari – doorman. Here, I recall to the opening words of the Bhagavad Gita, when the blind king Dhritarashtra asks Sanjay to tell him the state of the great battle of Mahabharat. But the doorkeeper of insight here is any watcher through the ages, anyone who stands apart and watches the outcome of human endeavors. Mischeviously, I also think of Sartre’s Huis Clos and Arthur Clarke’s “The Sentinel.”

Kshay – is gradual diminution, catabolism, part of cosmic cycle of creation and destruction. 

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