Ramayana

Hark, hark, the loquacious man speaks...

Amidst the languid foliage of the jungle emerges the resister. Slung over his indefatigable shoulders, a handcrafted bow, a soul-wrenching past, a hazily resolute future interwoven by images of his estranged wife, his life, the toil and the strife, the unrelenting will to survive. Bending towards the serenity of the brook, he invigorates his senses by meditating upon the sacred lotus pond of his lord Visnu, enthroned mightily in glory. With a careless whisper the morning breeze caresses his bronzed covering, the occluding armour above the dense ocean of turmoil and sorrow. His thoughts we now follow, all through the endless tomorrows.

A chaste spouse floundering betwixt the boundaries of peril, tempation and sanctity. A deafening tirade on the conchshell, the inexorable call to mortal combat. Bow drawn, eyes transfixed, chaturangas geared, faces smeared, a battalion of souls both fearing and feared. In the name of dharma, conscience artificially cleared. On the very ground they tread, they deposit fragments of their souls, lest the body fails to find its way home.

Then, as glorious as drops of nectar on a parched land, divinity descends, and in one stroke of provenance, the untamed beasts of the jungle proclaim their allegiance to our weary resister. Woe to the demon, its craving and lust now confront the callous spear of justice! Yet upon the sight, what more the touch, of such unprecedented celestial beauty as incarnated by the resister's inamorato, what else has the demon to lose, to gain, to cling on in vain? Not this wretched life, nor any previous and future existences as the demon hangs its head in profound resignation, arms of destiny outstretched and crucified from kalpa to kalpa. If demise be the price for the abduction and tryst, then let all be staked upon the roll of its karmic dice.

...And upon uttering thus, the loquacious man is assailed by fatigue...bid him a good repose, and he will return shortly to bestow the remnants of the Ramayana.