I was reading the Mahabharata—unabridged, whole, explicit in every gory detail. The vivid images of the bloody battlefield were still fresh in my mind as I turned the corner. And stood aghast. There they were, by the hundreds and thousands, thickly carpeting the sidewalk. Unclaimed, mangled bodies lying dismembered, trodden, and trampled. The sidewalk of the dead and dying. The casualties of a fierce battle.

The great war

Was this the great war? Where kinship didn’t count and brother killed brother? Here too they had been anchored by the same roots and nourished by the same sap. Bathed equally by the rain and sun, caressed by the same breeze. Yet they had fought bitterly.

What had led to this great war? Was it for that extra bit of sunshine? Or did they clash due to minor differences in hue? Did those occupying the higher branches claim higher status for themselves? Or did they vie for the attention of the thieving bees? Maybe it was just a whisper in the breeze that fanned the flames of hatred.

Was it perhaps, hubris? At the very pinnacle of their glory, with the sun in their eyes and the adulation of the crowds in their ears, did they think they were indestructible? Did each branch claim supremacy, forgetting that their massed coexistence was their strength? The secret of their striking beauty was the rich variations of the crimson, scarlet, and orange; not one single hue. Did they allow a minor scuffle to spread unchecked, spreading discontent, inflaming passions, till the entire avenue was a fratricidal war zone?

The dead warriors

I paused to glance again at the sidewalk of the dead. A great many were those who had lived their lives fully and well. They had blossomed to their full potential, known love and fulfilment. Knowing they would leave behind them the fruits of their legacy, they had ranged themselves at the forefront of the battle. Wise and brave, they were willing to perish to give the young a chance at life. Now they lay at my feet, withered and lifeless, a pale shadow of their flamboyant younger selves.

They died young

I tread softly past those who had fallen in the prime of their lives. Even as I looked, one fell at my feet—perfectly formed, the vibrant crimson still pulsating through its limbs. It had been clinging on desperately, but its life had been cut short. Death was certain; for they were severed from their roots forever. Anonymous and unknown, they would be swept into mass graves to be forgotten—with no legacy to remember them by either. They had died young, their hopes and aspirations crushed hopelessly underfoot.

the unborn

Then there were the unborn. They lay within their sheathed wombs, still being nursed to adulthood. Their beauty would never see the light of day! Had they been too fragile, too weak to hold on? Or were they headstrong and impulsive, rushing into battle, throwing off the restraining hand of their wise elders? Or were they just collateral damage? Conflicts spare none.

The end

The morning was serene, the cheery birdsong and light breeze carried no momentous news of discord. Yet, the battle would rage, night after night, leaving a crimson carpet of the dead and dying on the sidewalk — till none remained. There would be no winners. The season of blooming prosperity and beauty would end in emptiness, barrenness and bare skeletal branches.

The gulmohar tree despaired. Would it always be so? Would every glorious era it gave birth to end thus—in annihilation and bloodshed?