Mock Epic: The Remote Of Relentless Fate Poem by ashok jadhav

Sing, O Sofa-Spirit, guardian of crumbs,
Of plastic scepter forged in distant marts,
The Remote—small wand that ruled the glowing realm
Where worlds were changed by thumb and sudden click.
Grant me high speech for lowly strife, I pray,
For war arose at dusk in humble halls.
The sun withdrew; the television woke,
Its square-eyed godhead humming into life.
Then entered he—my father, lord of news,
Whose brows were knit with politics and fate.
From opposite the field advanced my kin,
My sister swift, her taste for dramas sharp,
Her fingers trained in stealth and lightning speed.
Between them lay the prize upon the couch,
A relic worn by years of mortal hands,
Its buttons faded like old battle shields,
Its batteries—veterans of many wars.
The mother spoke, Cassandra of the house:
"Be calm. Let peace decide the evening's show."
But peace, as always, fled before the storm.
My father seized the Remote! —a sudden charge.
He pressed the red, awakening the gods.
The news erupted: wars beyond the sea,
Markets that rose and fell like wounded men.
He smiled, content, enthroned in cushioned state.
But lo! From shadows sprang the counterforce.
My sister lunged with cry both shrill and bold:
"The episode begins! The hour is fixed! "
She grasped the wand; the channels leapt in fear,
From headlines grim to lovers bathed in light.
The screen convulsed. The sound clashed steel on steel.
The Remote passed hands like Hector's fatal helm.
Mute was invoked, the darkest spell of all;
Subtitles rose, pale ghosts of spoken words.
I joined the fray, a minor lord at best,
Advocating sports—vain, hopeful plea.
Ignored by all, I fell to cushions low,
A casualty of louder, elder wills.
At last the batteries, tired of endless war,
Gave up their charge and dimmed the glowing field.
The screen went black. A silence vast as night
Descended on the stunned, defeated host.
Then laughter rose—thin truce of common blood.
The Remote lay still, disarmed, at peace.
Phones emerged, new tyrants of the age,
And each withdrew to private glowing wars.
Thus ends the siege of plastic throne and screen:
No victor crowned, no channel truly won—
Save Time, who claimed the evening for himself.