It is lonely at the top

It was an arduous climb up the rocky mountains,
As we negotiated the steep slopes and the hidden crevices,
We were a team of four in that magnificent journey,
The seers had said it would take a lifetime to reach those dizzying heights,
If we scaled the mountains along its southern side,
The Northern Side would take us there in a flash,
But we would find no joy in that climb.

The night before we sat around a fire,
Thinking about the dawn we would see tomorrow,
As the first rays of the fiery sun appeared in the distant horizon,
We pledged on the holy fire – The Southern Side it would be and only death would do us apart.

The journey was long and difficult,
We saw the four seasons a countless number of times,
The cold numbed our fingers and the heat sapped our reservoir of energy,
But every night when we would retire we would sleep in the hope of reaching the top.

There were tigers and hyenas along the way,
That we fought and defeated bravely,
And every time the vultures circling in the sky,
Would return hungry and tired.

The sun would create enchanting mirages,
Of beautiful maidens and exquisite wines,
But the wisdom among us did prevail,
When we saw them sitting atop a monstrous abyss.

The pinnacle was within sight and our energies multiplied,
As we progressed faster than ever before,
But then the arguments broke out,
Who would reach the top first?

We let the sticks decided for us,
And I drew the shortest one,
And then the others said – ‘The Divine One has spoken
It is your turn to be there before us and then bring us up.’





As I set my foot on top of the mountain,
I was numbed by the surge of joy,
The pain in my limbs disappeared and the scars on my hands dissolved at once.
My reverie was broken by the call of my mates,
Who asked me to haul them up,
I gave my hand to one of them and as I touched his flesh,
I felt the bile in my mouth.

I do not know what happened then,
As I left his hand and opened my tattered bag,
From that I drew my grandfather’s scimitar,
And cut the rope that had held us together.

I looked over the edge of the peak,
And saw my mates hurtling towards their death,
When their skulls struck against the stones that we had conquered,
Their eyes and mouths were wide open.

I saw the vultures descend on their bodies,
And feast on them for a fortnight,
Then those vile creatures flew up to me and said,
‘You are our master.’

From that day I have lived on that peak,
All alone with that scimitar,
The vultures tell me of invading parties that have escaped their clutches,
And I stand on the edge of the peak.

I throw giant boulders on the puny men,
The ones from the North disperse easily,
But the Southerners are tough rugged men,
And I enjoy myself as I draw my scimitar,
And chop off those hands that reach out to me.

I have grown old and frail,
A walking mass of bones,
All alone at the top.

My skin is losing its color, but my scimitar shines through the night,
As I look at the red sun in the west, I see a horde of vultures approaching me,
And I say to them – “Oh worst of the avian creatures – It is lonely at the top”
My legs start sagging and my scimitar falls away,
And through the night I see the vultures feasting on my legs,
And before they pierce my eyes with their talons they say –
‘Nay Master – we are here for company.’