Lost Language By Ink Soul Poem by Ink Soul

Lost Language By Inksoulword

Before they came with sails and creed,
Before the ink, the sword, the speed—
We had no flags, no foreign rod—
But rhythm, root, and rain-fed God.

No canon sang His sacred name,
No trinity defined His flame.
He bloomed where rivers wept their tide—
Where forest temples breathed with pride.

We called Him Bhagavān, not "God."
Not bound by book or colonist nod.
He rose from Bhūmi, wind, and sky—
Not from a cross, not from a lie.

ভূ — Bhūmi, soil that shapes the soul.
গ — Gagan, skies that thunder whole.
বা — Bāyu, breeze that lovers chase.
আ — Agni, flame in holy space.
ন — Nīr, the water, vast and kind—
In these, our gods—alive, aligned.

No need for ink to prove belief—
No need for pulpits, gold, or grief.
The sacred moved in cowbell's chime—
In lullabies, in harvest time.

Then came the sails with holy gloss,
With sermons wrapped in trade and loss.
They peered into our jungle shrine
And named it "chaos, not divine."

They offered "God"—with G.O.D.
A Generator, rule decree.
An Operator—cold control.
A Destroyer—not river, soul.

They made our cosmos into codes,
And forced our chants into their roads.
They sealed our myths in silent tombs—
And turned our prayers to classroom fumes.

Ishwar, too, fell into dusk,
Brushed with doubt and colonial musk.
"Too Sanskrit, " they said. "Too unrefined."
His power drowned beneath their mind.

Yet hear—he walks in whispered breeze,
In village songs, in banyan trees.
ঈ — Indra, bolts in summer fight.
শ — Shakti, born to guard the light.
ব — Vamana, god who grows.
র — Rama, king where dharma flows.

What once was mantra now is myth,
A flicker lost to western pith.
We pray to "God" at wedding feasts,
But hush the rites of native priests.

Oh beloved, when we kiss,
Do you feel the names we miss?
You say "God"—but do you know
How Bhagavān made monsoons glow?

When I touch your skin, I hear
The sacred tongues they made unclear.
When I hold your hand, I mourn
The lullabies they tried to scorn.

But still, in dusk, I hum them low—
Songs of soil, and river's flow.
Not out of hate—but love so deep
It wakes the names that fell asleep.

Let Bhagavān rise in the storm.
Let Ishwar hold our quiet form.
Let temples speak in native phrase
Of gods who never sought to praise—
But held us, healed us, gave us song
And walked beside us all life long.

Let "God" be known—but not alone.
Let roots reclaim what we've outgrown.
Let every child, when asked to see,
Know "God"—but also Īshwarī.

This is the voice you asked me for—
The one that weeps but dares restore.
Not voice of rage, but voice of grace,
That mourns but still knows how to face.

A language bruised is not yet dead.
A name erased still bows its head.
So say it loud, in dust and grain—
Let Bhagavān return in rain.

Let every shrine, in dusk or dawn,
Call Ishwar back, where hearts are drawn.
And let these names not just survive—
But bloom again—and be alive.