Kul Pralay and Post Mahabharata Humanism | कुल प्रलय
Translated Extract from the introduction
…In Kul-Pralay, Rajiv Mudgal reimagines a familiar episode from the Mahabharata not as a human tragedy, but as a vast, indifferent reckoning orchestrated by the world itself. The story no longer belongs to kings and warriors alone; it belongs to the City that remembers, the Sea that waits, and the Grass that judges. The narrative voice is no longer merely human—it is post-human, spoken from the perspective of built and natural environments that have watched humanity’s rise and fall with silent, patient agency.
Mudgal achieves a rare and seamless synthesis—a deliberate fusion of seemingly opposed worlds. The hard, metallic imagery of science fiction—flying vimanas, psychological warfare, cities suspended in air—merges with the soft, luminous imagery of Bhakti: devotion, stillness, surrender. The result is an atmospheric surrealism that feels both ancient and unnervingly contemporary: a metropolis woven from shadows, a narrator that is the city itself, and a weapon forged purely from ego. This is not a conventional epic; it is a metaphysical epic, a new form that might be called Vedantic science-fiction verse drama.
Kul-pralay is a work of immense ambition. It does not merely polish an existing tradition—it invents one. And the timing could not be more urgent. We are stepping fully into an age of manufactured reality—deepfakes, virtual worlds, algorithmic illusions—where the line between truth and simulation is deliberately erased. Kul-pralay treats this phenomenon not as mere technology but as weaponized Maya, a deliberate assault on the mind itself. Future wars will be fought less with steel than with perception, and Mudgal’s text anticipates that shift with chilling clarity.
At the same time, the work speaks directly to a post-human sensibility. The City is sentient; the Sea and the Grass are active participants with their own memory and will. When the Erak grass rises up to cut down the warriors, it is nature reclaiming agency after centuries of exploitation. This is the philosophical turn our moment demands: a recognition that intelligence is not confined to human skulls, and that the earth itself may one day refuse to remain passive.
The deepest warning, however, is ecological. The crisis begins with an iron pestle born from Samba—a stark symbol of industrial hubris. The Yadavas, believing themselves clever, grind the pestle to powder and cast it into the sea, certain the ocean will absorb their mistake. But the sea is a silent deceiver. It keeps the iron, transforms it, and returns it as sharp, sword-like reeds along the shore. When the final battle comes and weapons run out, the warriors seize these reeds—only to find the grass has become thunderbolts in their hands, hard as steel, lethal as vengeance. They are killed by their own discarded waste, processed and weaponized by the environment they assumed would forgive them.
There is no “away” in this story, just as there is no “away” in the Anthropocene. Whatever we release—microplastics, chemicals, radioactive residue—circulates, accumulates, and eventually returns. Kul-pralay offers a terrifying vision of ecological karma: matter and nature are not inert backdrops; they are watchful, absorbent, and capable of dissolving human arrogance back into the silence of deep time.
In the end, Mudgal leaves us with a quiet, devastating prophecy. Humanity may believe itself the master of creation, but the City, the Sea, and the Grass have been here far longer. If we continue to act with unchecked pride, they will not need to fight us—they will simply wait, remember, and absorb us, until even our loudest illusions fade into the same vast stillness that preceded us.
