The following are 4 original shlokas (prayers or hymns) which follow the style of the Panchatantra, ancient animal folktales from India which teach valuable lessons for the betterment of mankind.
Shlok 4
“The courage to stand up for good is equal
to have the courage to stand against evil.”
They came in single filed groups,
marching along with axes slung
over their shoulders and a variety
of other contraptions. The forest
air was abuzz with trepidation
and fear. The faint chatter of the
animals would rise and grow faint,
the way the tide approaches and
ebbs from the shore line as they
debated their next course of action.
Some shouted to flee from what
would soon become a disaster
whilst others insisted that they
should stand their ground.
The voices overlapped each other
like a knotted pile of hemp until
the roar of their leader cascaded
over them like a mighty waterfall.
They were here to stay. They were
here to protect their forest. They
were here to stand by their habitat.
His voice ricocheted around the forest,
until the axe bearers paused in wonder
as to what was happening. Slowly,
the animals followed in their leader’s
footsteps, emerging from their hiding spots.
Spots.
Black specs along a leopard’s lithe body.
Spots.
Gaps in moth eaten leaves.
Spots.
The puddles of water which are left in an elephant’s footsteps.
An anaconda slithered down from
a low hanging creeper. Racoons
emerged from bushes. Bats from
their cavernous cave dwellings.
Screeching birds and howling
Monkeys from the upper tiers
of several trees. The king’s soldiers
stood aghast at the wild population
before them, their hearts encapsulated
in the vice-like grip of wilderness.
The lion himself stood ahead of them
all. His eyes were like two drops of
molten lava, in the midst of which
swam pieces of burnished coal.
They simmered with barely suppressed
anger which threatened to bubble out
of the volcano of enragement. His
eyebrows slanted down so that in
their calm stature, they seemed even
more intimidating. It was then that
the men left, muttering to themselves
about timber and oak and hemp, of
fruits and vegetables, of territory to
build newer, better villages ordered
by their king. These whispers lay
forgotten at their leader’s feet,
killed by the sharp claws of courage.
Shlok 3
“The mutual exchange of wise actions and words
can lead to a future which shines with prosperity.”
Her long, slender feathers
swept the very ground she
walked on. Shades of emerald
would collide with the rustle
of leaves on the forest floor.
Deep shades of cerulean
and turquoise would form
luminescent orbs and a
plumed headdress would lie
on top of her frame.
When she moved, the branches
genuflected in hushed whispers
of her reverence, and the
vines which hung from the
trees parted in acquiescence
of her elevated grace.
From these feathers hung the
inherent knowledge of superiority.
The owl sat in his oak tree,
in his little crook in the trunk.
The owl watched quietly,
with his deep thoughts with
little slivers of openings.
The owl heard everything,
the rustle and bustle of feathers
and leaves, the murmuring of
branches and the swishing of vines.
There came a day when the
peacock had been imposing the
weight of her own beauty, throwing it
around impetuously and with a
stubbornness. Stubborn.
Like a river which does not part.
Stubborn. Like a tree which
does not move in the wind.
Stubborn. Like a bud which
refuses to bloom. It was then
that the owl stirred, and the
oak tree reverberated with
the force of his words as he
explained to the peacock that
her beauty meant nothing if
she continued to throw it around.
Decisions are queer things, the owl
explained, they have the ability to
shape and destroy lives as quickly
as an ant scurries across the ground.
The sky seemed to smile down
upon the pair as they conversed.
The wise and the foolish.
The deep and the shallow.
When the owl was done speaking,
she shed a single feather in
ultimate comprehension.
The fickle wind picked it up
on wings of acceptance and
it travelled
up,
Up,
up
to lie at the owl’s feet.
Shlok 2
“By going out of your way to welcome others,
you create a home in the core of your heart.”
When he raised his six
mighty tusks in all their
glory, their pearly white
resplendence would shine
in the glow of the sun’s rays.
Made from the milk of the
ocean, they were strong and
could soak up hundreds of
litres of water to spin
big, fluffy clouds.
These big, fluffy clouds
would encompass the whole sky.
His tusks would sing then, and
their song would carry soar across
the sky as flawlessly as an
apsara’s feet movements.
One day, when the birds
needed a venue in the sky
for their annual conference,
they flocked to him. Their
frenzied feathers fluttered
in a chaotic haze around him,
glimpses of crimson and
deep chartreuse emerald hues,
lapis and
flaming magentas.
When he asked them what was
so important they had to disturb
his precious summer siesta, they
explained in voices
high and low,
sweet and soft,
loud and harsh,
that they had to discuss the
matter of their new leader.
Looking at the hope of democracy
and change shining in their enlarged
pupils, the elephant stirred. His
large, slate grey form rose in all
its glory and he stretched out each
tusk delicately. The fine, silk
threads of condensed water
and air danced an intricate duet
with each other, forming wisps
of stringy cotton which gradually
became firmer.
Firm.
Like a string of pearls salvaged from a bottomless ocean.
Firm.
Like the back of an ancient turtle.
Firm.
Like the first raindrop tear which descends towards the ground.
The clouds formed spiers and
orb-like domes which sloped upwards.
As the rustling of wings surrounded
him on all four sides, his heart
felt fuller than it had ever felt before.
Shlok 1
“Saving another means saving yourself
by granting you a true friendship for life.”
She was gliding on the back of the wind,
her sharp gaze roaming through the
changing scenery.
Her fine feathers seemed to slice through
the air in their effortless suave,
when the sharp cry of a raven
permeated her eardrums.
The cry was so sharp, sharp and painful,
that she found herself slowing,
slowing as her pace turned sluggish,
slowing to an extent where she could
hear the whispering of the trees,
slowing so the leaves seemed to whistle,
daunting her on the reins
of the fickle wind she was riding.
It was then that she swivelled
her gaze downward.
In the tangles of a net,
he lay in a twisted, knotted heap.
Feathers met with wire in places
where there were several unidentifiable
gashes, and the blood that escaped
stained the ground in a visceral
and despondent red.
She saw the way the wire stabbed
into the raven’s flesh, and his chest
heaved slowly,
up and down,
up and down,
up and down.
She swooped downward like an arrow
which had to find its mark.
Her talons were outstretched in her
signature claw formation and as
they reached out to dislodge
the ghastly wire contraption
they got snagged.
Time stilled, and the pain came in bursts.
Little bursts as the talons were brutally
ripped from her own legs by the sheer
underestimated weight.
Burst.
The sun rising from the misty hills.
Burst.
Lightning piercing across the sky when it rains.
Burst.
The taste of fresh worms wriggling in her mouth as she feasts.
It was then that she saw the raven had
managed to escape the wire.
He was injured, but alive.
He looked at her, a rapid sense of loyalty
and devotion forming in his burnt amber eyes.
She knew then that it was forever.