Laden and rich with crops I saw –
The bald head of the Minister
Where grew fine hybrid rice and wheat
For the dowry of his sister.
The King too saw it all and frowned:
“Why do we not grow anything
In my lush royal paddy fields?!
Transplant them soon, then praise and sing.”
“You’re great, greatly indeed greatest,
O’ our dearest King, you’re the best,
You’re the worst, for you’re everything”
Sang all the courtiers and the rest.
And then I saw the mad, mad, king,
And his dear royal fellow mates
Who ate and drank, and drank and ate
And left not even seeds of dates.
Still puzzled? Then the little King –
The man, the little elephant –
Asked all to come sit on his back
And for a joy ride pay a cent.
Pumped and high, the King then asked all –
To whirl and dance and play with him
His favourite of all the games –
‘Who can best swing and kick the King’.
The more they hit, the more he laughed
The hard they hit, the hard he laughed
And then, after the last fifth round,
Into the mid air he was tossed.
He fell down with the greatest thud
And had his dear pot belly smashed
The courtiers too smashed to the ground
As on them their little King crashed.
Still unfazed, the King then summoned –
Best of the best doctors in land
And ere others could say a thing –
“Transplant”, was his only command.
Blown by what I witnessed, I went –
Back to my home, dear home, sweet home,
But all I could dream was bellies
Round and big, as that temple dome.
The next I heard the courtiers sing –
“Our bellies shine with Mysore silk
The King and we, give everyday,
Fifty litres of Buffalo milk.”
—
By Swetansu Mohapatra (Jan 2003)