They held me, like they beheld his chariot,
My brother charioteers did, until now.
If in the blood and gore
And slippery mess of battleground
The wheels suddenly did touch the earth,
Who would notice?
Not the cheering army of the five brothers;
Not the thunderstruck troops of the Kauravas.
Not Drona who was grieving,
Renouncing and dying;
Not the ungallant brother-in-law of my lord
Who was only fulfilling his destiny.
Not his brothers who in battle-lust were immersed;
Not the beloved Madhyama,
Bhima, whose deed my lord attested as truth,
He was grieving for his son;
Not Arjuna, following your divine lead
And chasing the self-accursed ones,
He was grieving for his son too;
Not Nakula, the graceful one;
Not Sahadeva, the wise.
When the chariot stopped floating
And landed abruptly,
Krishna, what must my lord have felt?
A lie however couched,
Asvatthama hatah; kunjarah.
Did you have to bring even my lord
Down to a mere mortal, Krishna?
Did you have to prove that men are weak,
A right lever can move worlds,
Make a truthful man a liar?
Not a born enemy my lord had
Until you turned Asvatthama
A dark angel of destruction with this lie.
Not a fault my lord had.
One lie and the next will come easier,
The third will trip off the tongue.
My lord's chariot became ordinary, Krishna.
There must be a better way to serve Dharma.