The Birth of Death

Let me narrate how Death came ‘pon this Earth, Said sage Vyasa to Yudhishthir, shattered By Abhimanyu’s death, ‘Oh vain my birth Should a young dream die and lie scattered’. A story it is from a Golden Age, A king called Akampan had lost his all And his dear son in battles that had raged, A brave young man had lost on duty’s call. Lost of all hope, in grief he roamed alone, In search of peace— his mind still sunk in war, And he finds sage Narad there standing prone; For a ship lost on high seas, a Poll Star! My son was brave-enough to take on gods, But enemies came, conspired him to kill, Pray, tell me what death is, what dying means, Life I know, but not what death has to deal. To his query the sage this story told— Of Birth of Death, of old age and disease: When Brahma created world in times old, Death had found no place in the scheme of His. And life lived and lived for endless long years, No one died, and still new life came to be, Poor earth! No more this burden could she bear, Ant-like life swarmed O like a shore-less sea. An ocean of life in a waxing tide, Plundering Ma Earth’s modest means, no pause, Causing chaotic turmoil, unknown ill, Grass-eaters ate flesh, such were hungry maws. Oh hard was it getting to breathe, O Lord, Who, wondered how to turn this giant tide, To lighten Earth’s burden, shorten life’s cord, Ere it collapsed under own weight and died. Brahma thought for long hours, for days on end, ‘Poor of me, how I never thought of this?’ A way out seemed far from creator’s hand, His visage showed worry where once beamed bliss. In rage, his eyes seemed like luminous arc, Flames of fire flared all the worlds to consume, And pierced heavens to lap all the Earth, And it looked like a cosmic night’s dour doom. II Gods, goblins gathered in a flood of fate, Earthlings worshipped along sages and seers, And invoked Shiva, easy to placate, O with folded hands, eyes flooded with tears. He that Ganges gathered in matted locks, Concerned, compassionate to common plight, Reassured them, let me see what be done, Ah one that destroys on creative height. Pleased am I, you in my abode to find, Brahma said to Shiva, I bow to you; Who said, as Creator ye aught be kind, But raging art thou; do stop ere ye rue. Sure, enraged I am but only on me, Nor yet intend to destroy it, O Lord, Ashamed, not to know what the way out be, It’s odd I have used no punishing rod. I’ve thought for long, succeeded not yet still, If frustrated, my eyes do emit fire; Do cool down still, prevent a scorching ill, Advised Shiva, be pleased, relax Old Sire. Save these lakes, save rivers, save all this life, Spare this creation from a pointless pain, Think of a wise way out from world-wide strife, Think if life can renew, return again. Let Time unto three-fold time zones divide: One, what hath come, and never to return, One that is vast, unknown, born nor yet died, And present that unfolds, called ‘now’ on run. He hearkened well, all three wise heads of his, Restrained red rage, recalled his scorching flares, And absorbed fire in his eternal bliss; It’s better birth and death bear equal shares. Let humans tread a path— one of a twain: The path of karma—of good deeds, to earn Fruits, place in heaven, earn and spend in chain; Or of no fruits— path of birth nor return.