Scribbles by Sudhansh

Beneath the plum tree, by the hut,
Sat the valiant son of Sumitra…
With an ever ending alertness,
And, above all, an unshakeable shraddha…
For the divine couple he served joyously.
His eyes darkened, his spirit intact…
His mind homesick, his will indomitable.
His heart longing for her…
Afraid to utter her name,
For one tender word might ruin his penance,
Flooding down countless memories of time immemorial,
They’d known each other before time was born,
Long before Sahasrabahu was slain,
And Sahasrakavach lost his nine score ninetieth armour.

They were meant for the other’s completeness,
Yet forced to barely dream of one another.

Gloomy eyes of the third brother would often want to shoot the sky,
Hoping the shot would fall at her feet,
And she’d pick it recognizing his scent.
Alas! The love deep buried in his heart was masked by menace.

Sitting in the front yard once at midnight,
He closed those eyes for a moment,
There he saw, her in a blue saree,
As if the sky had sacrificed itself to beautify her.
In the quiet grove, Urmila knelt low, 
Her gentle hands press a sapling into moonlit dirt. 
From her forearm flowed crimson, a silent, sacred stream, 
Watering life for Lakshman’s shield for some day in the near future.

Long armed Lakshman woke up in a hurry,
His heart heavy with remorse for breaking his penance,
Not knowing that he saw not a bad omen,
But a glimpse of his beloved sacrificing a part of her; for him.
Literally!