Yashoda

Yashoda

Won’t you turn back and look, Kanha?

and see her tear stained face

and the eyes that stonily stare

at the dimming sight of your caravan?

Won’t you see those quivering lips

moving silently to bless you for eternity?

Would you forget the touch of her scalded fingers

that broke for you the hot bread into tiny morsels?

and the sound of her jingling bangles

as she churned out the frothy butter?

The scent of her jasmine bound hair,

You inhaled as she spun the fairy tales?

The warmth of her hug on those moonless nights,

When the spooky monster chilled your spine?

And, the pearly white smile that grew bigger

At your every big and small achievement?

The courtyard chase in mock anger

at the butter thefts and neighbourhood clamour?

And, the midnight spying by the omniscient mother

As you stole away to sing and dance with Radha?

Would you not think of her

as you fulfil your glorious destiny?

Would you not think of her

as you slay Kamsa and guide Pandavas

on the chessboard of their tumultuous lives?

Would you not think of her

as you take sixteen thousand and eight wives

and prevent disrobing of Draupadi?

Would you not think of her

as you become the Narayana

and come to be known as an incarnation of Visnu?

Would you not think of her

as you herd your tribe to the resplendent city of Dwarka

and when you lay dying with an arrow stuck in your heel?     
- Neha Bansal

An outing with girlfriends

An outing with friends

On a cold wintry night

sipping the Starbucks latte

we drove around the city,

discussing the leitmotifs

in a Director’s cut

we had watched that evening

on reclining seats with ottomans

and warm blankets to cover our feet.

In Jimmy Choo heels

clutching Louis Vuitton bags,

we planned for fancier cars

and holidays in Provencal France.

Bitched about indolent maids

and the meddlesome in-laws.

Ranted about the wearisome life in general

And the overbearing bosses in particular.

Made fuss over the Sabyasachi ensembles,

For the friend’s destination wedding next year.

We cursed the government that

wasted tax payers’ money copiously

and the uncouth people at large

for spitting and pissing all over the city.

The harangue went on and on about

the myriad discomforts of our lives

till the time we saw her,

the one with the vacant eyes.

She stood on the side walk,

her clothes tattered and torn

her hair a lifeless brown and shorn

her youthful body contrasting

with the ancient stoic face.

Silent now in the snail-paced traffic,

we soberly passed by her

and saw her survey the footpath

to rest her weary bones

under the cold street light.

-Neha Bansal