Eklavya’s thumb still mocks Drona

Categories ballad, content writing, poetry, sarcasm, storytelling

I’m going to tell this , to anybody who’ll listen
not saintly harangues ,nor tales of erudition

of myths galore,
in the lore’s store
I still choose the one
of deceit-slash-ambition-slash-treachery, and more.

When the idols were chained down;
and fiendish fury rained down,
were the udders of Kamadhenu,
the cow of plenty, drained down.

The sky was black , the stars were white
they shone upon , a yearning youth in delight
who was born low, but still possessed;
enough-of-a-cheek and enough-of-a-fight.

who was denied to be Drona’s protege
who then built himself , a clay effigy
oh-such! was Eklavya , the archer of archers;
but alas! a low-born hapless prodigy.

An idol sat ,when
the idols were chained,
a bow was strained,
a thumb was tamed.

a thumb so tamed
on a nondescript bow,
which held a proud arrow;
of martial finesse , born low.

When the world acclaimed the prowess of Arjuna,
Arjuna, son of Indra , ‘worthy’ pupil of Drona

by happenstance , or caprice of fate
a bunch of arrows , when a stray dog ate
the arrows , those , a spurned bow claimed
and met a guru, on his feet , laid.

Arjuna cried out , in a vermilion fury,
“to claim me the best , who was the jury ?
for all the world , who was dead in disdain
has in a trice , made your vows go vain”

’twas then , at that wretched moment , alas!
when a guru asked , bold as brass
with an evil eye , and intentions crass
for a right thumb , and blood en masse.

On the guru’s mien , sprawled a pall
a honey-tongue , a heart of gall
a macabre fee , a crimson loot
but lo! the archer , didn’t care a hoot !

The bow didn’t bow
the quiver didn’t quiver
and perfidy became
perfidious as never.

a slice of a knife , off comes a thumb
such treachery , shenanigan , Arjuna , numb.
The gods were black , the sky was white
the wrecked kid , though still had fight

a left thumb survived , without a scar;
tamed close enough, but no cigar.
Wronged by fate , and slain by Krishna;
Eklavya’s thumb still mocks Drona !

…   …   …

the words were black , the book was white
to be dwelt on by a youth tonight.
for what sounds like a hot knife
through butter , will be the litmus test of his life.

he mugs and mugs up , crams up the book
no stone unturned , no page spared a look
In the fullness of time , the litmus test arrives,
girds up his loins , while an ominous brow shook.

He set his pen aloft , and poured all he knew
but to no avail, for glory was ‘reserved’  for a few.
and though he fought , with might and main,
Cassandra’s curse upon him ,was lain.
for none believed what he wrote and knew.

As the day of reckoning came forth
a gallon of sweat, a corpus crammed , it did thwart and loathe
all those sleepless nights thus turned out
a day late and a dollar short.

and while a Dumpty gloated , our Humpty had a great fall
why-ho ? why rob Peter , to pay Paul ?
an equal , but sotosay-unfortunate , usurped his claim
while on a noose somewhere , his neck hung in shame.
nameless masquerades thus having borne ,
Eklavya’s thumb still mocks Drona !

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