From where I am, there is a tale
Of Krutya, the great architect.
He left his pregnant wife behind
When the king called him to inspect
The capital temple, with its cracks,
That threatened to fall on his head
And if it was beyond repair,
To build a new one in its stead.
Krutya, knowing no fame there was
In repairing a temple old,
Showed the king a grand design:
A temple made of marble, gold.
The king, knowing no fame there was
In repairing a temple cracked,
Handed him the keys to where
Marble and the gold were stacked.
In seven years and seven months,
The temple stood shining new.
The king, so happy, granted him
Titles, land, and a mansion too.
Happy, Krutya called his wife:
“Come here and see how grand it looks
It’ll stand so centuries to come
And make me part of history books.”
Overjoyed to hear from him,
A-running to Husband she came.
With her had come their little son
Abhikrutya had been his name.
When she went for a simple bath,
The father sat beside the son,
And asked him, “Do you know your Dad?”
The son said, “Yes, you’re not the one.”
“Then who is it?” he asked enraged.
“He comes each night,” said the son.
“He sleeps when Mother sleeps at night
And goes out later with the sun.”
Krutya stood waiting, spear in hand,
When the wife came out, scent in hair.
And as she lay down motionless,
The son, pointing, shouted, “There!
“That’s my father who lies with her.”
The child said of the shadow cast.
“He’s ever there with us, together.”
Krutya stood shivering, aghast.
When the village had asked the son
“Who is your father? Where is he?”
His mother had shown him the wall
“He’s with us, son, don’t you see?”
That night, Krutya, went to his God,
Sitting in the cracked temple old.
Driving his spear into a spot,
He waited till the rocks had rolled.
The king, hearing this tragedy,
Took Abhikrutya as his scribe.
Thus, in history, Krutya comes:
A murderer of his wife.