Reflection

In the mirror of fire
I glimpse my own reflection.
This body, too, must one day burn—
those who gather at the pyre
will define a life
in endless adjectives:
who stood close, who stayed away,
how far honesty endured,
how sinful, how flawed in nature,
how much of the earth’s torment
was carried on this path.
Every man becomes a mirror
in the life of another.
I was watching myself
in that fiery mirror.
I carried debts like a dog—
to those who tossed me
bones stripped of flesh.
Out of sheer hunger
my gratitude is owed most to them.
What they saw in me—
though I knew—
I never began a revolution,
never raised a protest,
never tried to be otherwise.
With this dog’s life
I agreed, a hundred percent,
and I made it my pride
to conceal this truth.
Selling the values of life
for the cheapest price,
yet surviving—
when I looked into the mirror,
the reflection was that of a stray,
gazing sorrowfully at the soul,
seeking the true face
behind the mask.
In this world a man is measured—
like the robber Ratnakar,
when Narada’s question unveiled
his infinite debts to wife, children, family—
the weight of a sinful life
no kin could carry for him.
So he learned, in his own way,
and became Valmiki the sage,
a vessel of truth.
Thus lives the worldly creature,
like crossing the river toll
with the coin of debt—
one day the sum must be returned,
principal and interest alike.
I have bound myself to a vow:
to repay every debt I owe,
morning and evening.
Looking to the future,
I will search for what remains—
the promise of tomorrow.
In the mirror I see
the reflection of a stranger,
unknown, yet filled
with a fierce, unknowable resolve.
And there was still
a little human faith—
in politics, in art,
in the daily lessons of life,
knowledge, and love.
How I wished to leave myself
for the world to remember—
not as a photograph framed,
but as something greater.
Is there anything in this world
more lasting than that?
I never found such worship.
Friendless, unable to exchange ideas,
I found no peace in the soul.
Instead a barren monotony rushed in,
and in idle hours thoughts whispered:
how long had I dragged this life
until it withered away?—
I no longer recall.
In the mirror of fire
I glimpse my own reflection.
Now there is no wish left—
this dog-life, with its countless debts,
bleeds out slowly.
Its purposes were never mine,
its goals never chosen.
Yet I bore them,
becoming what I never wished to be,
chasing dreams I never desired,
hating the very life
that has now imprisoned me
in an unseen chain.
I no longer have the strength
to shatter it and walk free.
Deceiving myself,
I march ahead
on this path of fire.
There is no limit
to this shame,
this servitude to desire.
From hearth to grave
the same ritual endures—
Rousseau’s beehive order,
a life of false security,
of unbroken faith.
Now I see: this is the mantra
of the common man’s life.
One day, surely,
they too shall find rest
in the dust of the road.
And those who walk to the cremation
will whisper endless opinions,
analyze the corpse—
what they saw, what they thought.
For even death demands a reason
to imagine immortality.
In the mirror of fire
I glimpse my own reflection.