I had written this poem in 1998 in the memory of a friend and it was published in The Asian Age in 2000.

Mahananda

 

 Mahananda, you left us at a loss

on the stage of the world

leaving incomplete your act

in the play of life.

We had great expectations

in your performances

but, alas!

Cruel destiny

played his role ruthlessly.

The tree that had borne you

is drying with grief,

its agony and wailing

has created a deep dark sky

and it rains often

whenever winds blow across.

Ah! What meant life to you?

Nothing, but the cruelty of time.

You were the bud

plucked before flowering.

Whom do you blame?

Time, god or destiny?

No Mahananda, who says you died?

No one can kill you,

no one has the right

to do so.

Life and death are two

shores of a river and

you have just left

from one shore to other

and it’s our inability to visualize

your world

because of deep waters

and tides

and also we are afraid

of our own life.

 

 

 

 

 

The Asian Age, 2000