Mirror

Removing the layers of make-up 

I wear to the sets of movies 

where I now play sometimes a sister 

and sometimes a teary eyed mother 

to the same male stars I have danced 

with around trees, under the water falls, 

gyrating my then thin waist 

to the beats of a typical Bollywood song 

but a few years ago

I see those half hidden dark spots 

and the unwieldly crow's feet that 

crinkle the side of my tired eyes 

that no longer twinkle as they used to. 

-Neha Bansal

(Published in "Mosaic of poetic musings : contemporary women poets from India" edited by Seema Jain and published by Authors press)

Sita's test by fire

Sitting in Asoka vatika, 

as the feral war had ended,

she waited for Rama 

to free her from her year long captivity. 

She dreamt of the day she first saw him 

as she walked demurely 

through the palace gardens  

that surrounded the shrine of goddess Parvati.

Her body fragrant with 

nagakesar and jasmine 

and wrapped elegantly in the 

ivory and gold saree that 

reflected the morning sunlight  

as the white lotus filled pools 

radiate the lambent glow of the golden Sun. 

There she saw him walking slowly 

but self-assuredly with eyes of 

the gentlest doe that contrasted those 

fierce ones of the younger and fairer youth 

and also of the Rishi she had known 

since her childhood, accompanying him.

Enthralled she walked to the shrine 

trying to calm her pounding heart, 

ignoring that smile that got etched 

in her thoughts, a smile that bloomed 

a thousand sweet-scented tuberoses 

and made her ache for the dark-skinned 

unknown man in the strangest ways. 

She tried to pray to the goddess 

for marital bliss and a Siva like husband 

But, could only visualise this man. 

As the victory trumpets blew, 

her reverie broke 

and she found herself 

still waiting under Asoka tree 

When would Raghuvar come? 

now her heart was beating wildly 

why doesn't he come and get me? 

As she felt a chill in her bones. 

There, she saw Laxmana, 

her heart filled with remorse 

as she remembered her taunting 

in Panchvati, when he refused to follow 

the cry that was obviously a hoax. 

He came to her with downcast eyes 

and folded hands and before she 

could convey her apologies, 

spoke in an emotion-filled hoarse voice. 

He told her how she had to pass

the test of fire as desired by her Lord 

and prove her chastity to the people 

Of Ayodhya and the entire world. 

She had to prove that Ravan 

didn't desecrate her and still 

She was the flower worthy of 

adorning an exalted altar. 

Her heart cried in agony 

but her eyes turned to stones

as she walked calmly 

through the forest of leaping flames. 

She emerged out unharmed 

to the loud chants of devotees

who having witnessed a miracle

now sang paeans to her fidelity. 

As she saw Rama, now openly crying 

welcoming her with arms wide open

Her mind couldn't get rid of the image 

of Siva carrying the charred corpse of Sati 

and dancing his angry Tandava 

as nothing soothed his excruciating pain. 

- Neha Bansal

 

(published in "Vibrant Voices : an anthology of 21st century women poets" edited by Seema Jain and published by Sahitya Akademi)

water wives

On this piece of a very parched Earth 

I walk ten thousand leaden steps 

under the burning merciless orb, 

We call the life-giving Sun 

dangling on hips a pot full of water 

while I carry two on my stiff head 

to provide succour to my thirsty hearth  

where the heavily pregnant first wife 

Of my middle aged husband 

bake millet chapatis for the master of the house, 

as I wash away the dirt, sweat and blood 

to ready myself for the nightly chores 

befitting a dutiful new wife. 

-Neha Bansal

 

Body shaming

The first time was in Grade five,

When the scheduled medical examination

in her very progressive school

led to the fateful discovery of her 

Forty kilograms of body weight 

by her merciless classmates 

who talked about nothing but this for days. 

But, it was the blowing of the cheeks 

and rounding of arms to probably imitate 

her corpulence by her secret crush, 

as her favourite teacher chose to look away, 

broke her heart in a myriad pieces. 

Then it was her own mother who 

in the fanatic zealousness often

shamed her into accepting much 

smaller meals to be like the dainty cousin, 

who fitted beautifully in the crimson skirts 

and embroidered blouse so expertly 

stitched by the best tailor in the town. 

After a thousand such shamings, 

by different people under different circumstances,

she may have learnt to keep her wits about 

And bear it poker-faced 

when the most beautiful bangles,

clothes and designer shoes meant for

average sized people won't fit her 

and she can see from the corner 

of her eye, the mocking gesture 

by the cheeky saleswoman, trying 

to gag her indiscreet laughter. 

- Neha Bansal

 

Not a Devaki : the story of women in prison forgotten by their families

 I am hardly Devaki,

celebrated for the auspicious

womb that carried the divine. 

But incarcerated in these four 

lime-washed walls, 

fading in the memories 

of the husband who conveniently 

remarried for a motorcycle, 

a sofa set and an air cooler, 

I did give birth to my Kanha 

among the other Devakis 

with no Vasudeva to ferry 

their Kanhas safely out 

to a picturesque Gokula 

where peacock's feathers would 

be woven in their hair. 

Here the only feathers 

are those of the crows,

that sometimes sit on the coping 

of the high parapet walls. 

-Neha Bansal

Postpartum blues

The grand narrative is that 

the motherhood is entirely glorious 

and the most natural thing in the world. 

But, they don't prepare you 

those early days of motherhood 

when you get that recurring 

thought gnawing your guilty heart 

that you are merely the udders 

that produce life nourishing milk for 

this little monster whose presence 

has acquired epic proportions 

in a crazily ecstatic household.  

While, you are lectured upon 

what to eat and drink 

so as to not harm the little one. 

When to bathe and how to sleep 

by the omniscient ladies,

as you sit smelling of milk, urine and poop

repentant for not being a 

good enough self effacing mother. 

-Neha Bansal

Gendering : Defining roles in early childhood

It begins with the birth of the child 

as only floral and feminine 

pinks adorn the little fairy, 

symbolising the rosy but confined life 

of a beautiful home with picket fences,

the parents wish their little one. 

The heavenly blue on the other hand 

are strictly reserved for baby boys 

who are destined to cover the vast

expanses of the limitless skies 

the way eagles soar high unencumbered 

from the earthly trappings. 

The toys come next and we see 

dainty dolls with unattainable 

standards of anatomical perfection 

pouring in those pink nurseries 

as each birthday brings heaps of presents 

furthering the stereotype.

And the parents fondly see their little one 

coo with satisfaction as she makes

tea for her make-believe husband 

in the kitchen set as she plays House. 

But, it's the fast moving hotwheel cars, 

the noisiest action figurines and the 

biggest Nerf-guns along with Mechanix sets 

that are gifted only to her brother 

so that from early on, he learns  

that boys don't cry and 

what it takes to be a Man. 

-Neha Bansal

Birth control

With one quick thrust 

he rolled off her 

grunting with satisfaction 

and soon snoring away blissfully 

as his potent seed is deposited 

deep inside her. 

The mother of two twists and turns 

sick with worry, 

ordering morning after pills 

from the nearest pharmacy 

to avoid turning her womb 

into yet another grave.   

- Neha Bansal

Raksha Bandhan

 As I tie this red mauli 

with silver peacock feather 

on your bony wrist,

I see you rummaging your kurta pocket 

for perhaps the Tissot watch 

you have spied on my Google searches. 

Or, perhaps it's the fat wad of currency notes 

that our mum has blackmailed you 

to put in Shagun envelope. 

But, no brother! it's not what I want 

as my this year's Rakhi present!!

I'd rather have equality

of opportunity to pursue my dreams 

like you are allowed to!

I'd rather want respect for my opinions 

and no more dismissal of my voice 

as naive at dinner table! 

I'd rather want a promise that 

you won't deem me a property 

to be protected till you hand me

over to my rightful owner!

I'd want you to be the wind 

beneath my wings and not the

jewel studded golden cage 

that would bind me for life!!

-Neha Bansal 

The prostitute

Dreaming of  rainbows I left home  

happy to be rid 

of the leaking roof and  

perpetually hungry five younger siblings.

Relieved to be no more haunted by 

the ghost of a widowed mother 

whose eyes were the waste land 

where no hope grew. 

Safe from that lingering dirty gaze 

of the maternal uncle whose hands 

often brushed my breast accidentally. 

I eloped with the man I loved. 

The one whose plagiarized couplets 

swept me off my adoloscent feet. 

The one whose rakish eyes 

teased a certain string in my heart.  

The one whose feverish hands 

sought the secret treasures in me. 

We traveled many towns 

and stayed at many cheap inns. 

And one night as I lay dreaming 

sold me to a hirsute pot-bellied man.

Twelve years have passed since then 

I am a mother now 

of a child whose father's identity

I know nothing about.

I have been abused, insulted, slapped, 

suffered diseases, bitten in to and raped. 

All wounds heal eventually 

but for that of the betrayal 

by the one who had once made you dream. 

-Neha Bansal

 

The unwed mother

I  was told time and again 

By my wise mother 

that I was but a field 

to be given away to my husband 

where he shall sow his seeds 

and reap the harvest. 

Harvests are always celebrated!!

Have you not seen the colorful revelries 

of  Onam, Pongal, Baisakhi or Bihu?

Why then the crop of my field 

still unripe and tender 

such a disgrace, an occasion of such lament? 

If the owner of the seeds would not 

accept his harvest, why can't I be 

both the field and celebrator of my harvest? 

-Neha Bansal 

The parameter of beauty

My parents named me "Kajal"

Perceiving the quintessence of beauty 

in my big dark eyes spread out 

on only a slightly lighter face. 

They told me about Krishna, 

the dark-cloud complexioned God 

who enchanted the world 

with his timeless beauty and 

child like spontaneity. 

They told me about Yajnaseni

the fire-born daughter of Drupad

whose face like the midnight sky  

mesmerised the entire Aryavrata.  

Why, then do I see only 

the lightest skinned actors play 

the heartthrob Krishna and 

the resplendent Draupadi in 

the mythological soaps on National TV? 

My mother taught me that the beauty 

doesn't come in certain colors 

and sizes alone and scoffed 

at my attempts to bleach 

my face with dozens of beauty products 

that flood our markets. 

My father admonished me 

when I would eat half a chapati 

everymeal to stay thin. 

They made me confident 

to live in my skin 

and asked me to work harder on 

career and strength 

of my character instead. 

Why then, do I have to go through 

this mindless ritual of scanning 

the matrimonial columns every Sunday 

that only seem to want fair, tall 

and slim girls for the perspective grooms?? 

-Neha Bansal 

The test

After a myriad rituals 

and post nuptial games 

that the marriage party 

makes you play to determine 

Who will dominate the conjugal

life of the groom and bride. 

You may win if you must but never

let him not look like a fool. 

After all the women in neighbourhood 

comment on the dowry on display 

and check out the golden complexion 

and the child bearing hips of the bride,

They will bless you most brazenly 

to bring them a grandson

in nine months time. 

You will be then pushed to a 

room strewn with Jasmine flowers. 

Here you wait timidly with 

warm cardamom milk for your master. 

You must look down as he lifts the veil 

and tremble like a leaf at each touch. 

You have to mock protest his advances 

But softly give in to his brutish demands. 

You bear the pain like 

a good girl that you are 

and dream of the children 

that you would so make.  

With the first ray of sun 

as you get ready for the day, 

the besmirched white sheets 

would be inspected minutely

by the experienced eyes. 

-Neha Bansal

The migrant workers

Those are not fields of wheat 

of our landlords

but the gold of our labour 

which brings morsels of food

to the ailing elders and crying children 

back in the shanty villages 

that no longer provided enough.  

These are not the brick and mortar 

for the homes we build for our contractor 

But the gossamer silks of our dreams  

that bring a new tin shed 

and proof the leaking dilapidated hut 

in our little hamlet by the river side. 

These are not mere machines 

that produce in surfeit  for our factory owners 

but the magic wands of a wizard 

that conjure up clothes for half naked children 

and dowry of our unmarried sisters 

as they wait every evening for the postman 

to bring by the monthly relief. 

At this home away from home,

my husband and I 

worked by the day bathed in sweat 

and dreamt by the night 

of all the succour we provided 

to the people back at home in the 

wasted villages that were once 

replete with self-sufficiency.  

In this home away from home, 

we were grateful for the benediction 

our masters so graciously bestowed. 

And then, it happened 

when the cities and towns were plagued 

with an unspeakable horror. 

A disease that alienated them from us 

and made them throw us out 

Of fields and construction sites, 

From factories and even their hearts. 

The disease that made us undertake 

the long journeys through the ghostlands 

where all magic fizzled away 

into an infernal reality of human apathy. 

- Neha Bansal

Menstruation

When my best friend bled 

for the first time,

her mother hugged her 

and thanked Almighty 

as her beloved daughter 

finally reached the threshold 

of her womanhood. 

She cooed away her 

menstrual cramps 

and fussed greatly over 

all her tantrums.

She treated us all 

to pizzas and shakes 

that made the coming of age 

so very special. 

But I couldn't help remembering 

the cold silence of my mother, 

not a fortnight ago,

when she  forbade me to

enter the household temple

or touch the lime pickle 

I so much loved. 

- Neha Bansal

The dalit girl

She walked around with a song in her head,

A song that gave her hope 

to break the tether that tied her 

to a grey hued marginalised world 

and fly away in to the vast expanse 

Of the dreamy Azure blue skies. 

Little did she know of those upper caste boys 

who viewed her pert breasts

and the swag of her teenage gait 

as an affront to their pigeonholed worldview 

where Dalit girls dared not look in to the eye 

but coyly yielded happily to their demands 

And any No's are secretly always a "Yes". 

-Neha Bansal

The fall of Draupadi

 It was asked why Draupadi fell first 

as she slipped from those craggy peaks

That were the stairs to the heavens. 

Was it her mocking laughter 

at duryodhana's clumsiness when 

he failed to discern the earth from water 

in the bewitching halls of Indraprastha?

The laughter that was ascribed to her alone. 

The laughter that rang in his ears for eternity 

and justified that blinding rage and burnt  

the dreams of an entire nation to cinders. 

Or, was it the dogged refusal,

actually orchestrated by Krsna,

to allow the guileless son of a charioteer 

break the shackles of a formidable caste system

and participate in her star-studded svayambara.

The refusal that was ascribed to her alone.

The refusal that seared his noble heart so 

that he rejoiced at a helpless woman's shame 

and further alienated a brother from his kin.

Was it because of her assent so shameless 

to be a bride to five husbands? 

A sin so great in Dharamshastras and yet

She dared to swagger with great pride.

An assent ascribed to her alone  

An assent which made bawdy men eye her 

like a golden prize that could be won in a game of dice. 

Or, was it her incessant rants that made 

her husbands lose their sleep as she 

berated them endlessly and for thirteen years

walked about with the long untied hair 

that thirsted for Kaurava blood. 

Those ceaseless rants ascribed to her alone.

The rants that led to killing of Kith and kin 

in this epic tale of carnage. 

No, it wasn't the hatred that burnt 

in the furnace heart of the Yajnaseni 

but, was love that undid her finally. 

It was the love for one man,

that outshone the affection for the other four.

The ache for that greatest archer,

who caught her wild eye at her svayambara.

The passion for that disguised brahmin youth 

whose neck she adorned with a garland of marigold flowers.

The desire for the third kunti-putra 

who brought her dreamy-eyed home,

only to share her with his brothers at his mother's command. 

The devotion to that obedient Pandava brother 

who agreed to the divine plan that granted 

them merely one in five years of wedded bliss. 

The pining for the surrogate son of Indra 

who deliberately broke the nuptial agreement 

And wandered away for twelve years to dally with other wives

The longing for that cousin of Krsna 

Who broke the oath to her 

And brought back a beeming Subhadra home. 

The yearning for the slave of Duryodhana 

who hung his head in shame with his brothers 

As her heart broke in to a million pieces. 

The preference for the man who turned woman,

Who couldn't show his valour when Kichak 

lusted for her in the last days of disguised exile.

The suffering for that slayer of Bhisma and Karna 

Who procrastinated in the battlefield and cared 

more for his valour than ever for her love. 

- Neha Bansal

Shrupnakha's forlorn song

How I wish I had known 

what stony hearts lay 

In those fair Aryan bosoms.

I would have nipped 

the very bud in my heart 

that bloomed a blue lotus 

Matching the magical hue of his skin.

I would have reined in my mind 

that galloped away like a wild stallion, 

Eager to touch those hard sinews, 

as he effortlessly chopped the firewood. 

Instead, I let a hundred peacocks dance 

spreading their colourful tails in monsoon,

mesmerised at the soothing sound 

Of his rain like voice.

And, I smelled a thousand jasmine flowers,

As they swung in the zephyrous breeze,  

when he moved about the modest hermitage.

And I let my heart beguile me,

Drinking in to world's headiest wine of love 

I unabashedly declared my desire.

But, his dark eyes were hard diamonds 

as he coldly doused my heart's fire.

He told me he was married,

and lived happily with his wife 

And had sworn himself 

to that puny woman alone,

For atleast, till the end of this life. 

I didnt understand his rejection 

As my voluptuous body far superior to hers 

Was wanted even by immortals 

that reigned from the blue firmament above. 

And here I offered him a slice of my heart 

as I was taken in by his quiet demeanour 

I just wanted to quench my heart

With the shower of his affections.

What he said next enraged me 

And I was soon seething with anger. 

He welcomed me to offer my charms 

to his even handsomer brother. 

His brother laughed sardonically,

and his wife's jeering eyes locked with mine.

They treated me like a common whore 

And continued with their contemptuous laughter,

But it was the scornful pride in her eyes 

that totally drove me insane thereafter. 

And, I leapt at her bare-handed,

Just to scare the mocking smile off her 

when Lakshmana hacked my nose and ears 

to teach lesson to the likes of me forever. 

It hurt me so to be  violated like that

When not mere body but soul gasped in pain

Couldn't an evolved man like Rama 

have counselled me out of my baser obsession?

And the learned brother of mine 

Instead of avenging my shame like a man, 

Stole another man's wife by creating illusions, 

An act so unkingly and of misplaced passion.

Having lost my ephemeral beauty,

I was even robbed of my character 

As the Aryan mythmakers called me 

the reason for the ensuing man-slaughter. 

No one ever understood my pain when

Not only was I stripped of my good looks,  

But, also deprived of my birth-name Meenakshi.  

I went down in history as a wanton Rakshasi,

Not the Lankan princess of a noble birth 

But a much mocked farcical stock character

Who wandered the enchanting forests 

and died by the lonely brooks. 

- Neha Bansal

Mandodari's lament

 For her, you burnt  the entire world,

A cornucopia of golden dreams,

where the verdure of the paddy fields

reflected in the sunfilled plentiful streams.

The days were full of a myriad flowers,

and the fireflies lit up the darkest skies.

The emerald green of our splendid isle 

Was filled with our children's gleeful cries.

Where Apsaras danced in our great halls 

and the famous artists vied with each other.  

Where Meghnada performed brave feats 

While Akshay and little Trishira brought 

a thousand smiles to their doting mothers. 

And then you brought her to our land,

The wailing wife of a prince-wanderer!

What madness had seized you 

to stake our dreams at the altar of your desire?

Ten thousand you had in your harem,

each melting in a hopeless longing.

Each woman, a prize you had won!

The priceless wives and concubines.

Was she really the prettiest of us all?

Or, even the most noble of birth?

What made you burn with such yearning 

for a girl, said to be born from earth?

And for her, you sacrificed it all.

The boisterous teenage of our youngest son.

And, banished your only righteous brother 

who tried to make some sense. 

You didn't hear the cries of new brides

Or saw those slender bangle-less arms.

Neither could you feel the heat of the pyres 

Nor, smell the blighted unattended crops 

that laid waste in our once glorious farms. 

One after the other, the heroes fell 

As continued the macabre dance of war. 

But, you refused my pleading counsels 

even when kumbhkaran's body began to char. 

The vanquisher of Indra went down next

But your stubborn pride refused to yield.

As you rejected the divinity of Rama,

And jumped ten-headed into the battlefield.

Was it lust,  ego or unbriddled pride 

that eclipsed the light of your mind?

What was that kingly hubris 

that made you so erringly blind?

And now you lay so still 

As your widows line up by the pyre 

And the toddler grandson of yours 

unsteadily holds the torch of fire. 

- Neha Bansal

Renuka

 The air stilled

And above the horizon

toppled an urn of deep crimson.

The sun blushed and hid 

Behind the billowing clouds. 

The larks stopped midflight 

Or, so they seemed 

no more eager to return to their nests.

Little periwinkles recoiled in horror 

and the garden lizards turned grey 

Matching the colour of the ancient stone, 

as he severed my head.

My brave last born,

the famous wielder of  the axe,

the avatar of Vishnu

To appease his infallible father,

Brimming with a righteous anger

Against a wife, who in a fleeting 

thought, desecrated his hearth.

Born to a king, but wedded to a seer 

my heart never yearned for those royal things.

I proudly birthed five sons 

And glowed forever in blissful domesticity. 

I cooked our meals,  

drew rangoli by the door

Rubbed stove ashes on pots 

and scrubbed floor.

Doing a thousand little chores 

And seeing them grow

Fanning everyone to sleep 

Was the sweetest thing.

I woke up before the sun

And saw it rise 

everyday by the bank of Malaprabha. 

The river of life energized me 

and the primeval Ramshrunga hills 

bore witness to the daily miracle.

When Renuka, the daughter of a king

And the chaste wife of Jamdagni 

Pulled the feat like no other.

Through the power of devotion to him alone 

And a burning steadfast concentration,

I could cajole the grains of sand

into a remarkable unbaked vessel.

In this worthy pot, I carried the water

For the man worthier then any other.

Those hard days of labour

have always been the dearest

As I absorbed the warmth 

of the taap he radiated.

The lambent glow of love for him

warmed me to the core.

And I happily went about my days

Till fireflies came home.

But one fateful day it was,

When my pride was pulverized,

And a glimpse of the gandharva pair 

pushed my chaste thoughts aside.

The abandon of sheer love making

unhinged the bolt of my upright mind.

It took me a few seconds to recover

And I banished away the filth 

and as I chastised  myself 

My eyes welled up in guilt.

A good woman doesn't ever desire

No! no! no! I have grossly erred.

And no matter how I tried

My my hands couldn't conjure an urn. 

The river failed to help me

And the Sun seemed to mock 

as I desperately clutched the grains 

And repeatedly cursed myself.

I knew he was omniscient

And could see my walk of shame.

He ordered his five sons

To drag the harlot by her mane. 

"Kill her! Decapitate her!!

She deserves to die!!!

No good woman does ever dare 

To think what she thought by riverside.

Women are but passive vessels

To hold the brave seeds

She will corrupt your wives' minds 

And soon they will talk about their needs."

The sons hung their heads in shame 

Oh yes, the father was so right,

But matricide is surely excessive  

they trembled at the father's side.

One by one, they dared to speak

Only to be petrified.

As the wrath of my husband burgeoned 

at this disobedient slight,

My last born, then came forward

Supplicated to the seething rishi

Who couldn't now be mollified. 

With one swift movement, he did it 

and didn't spare me even a glance 

And then shed copious tears 

as his heart broke into pieces.

The rishi placated now,

granted him a wish. 

And the great warrior definitely

asked for what was obvious.

The four brothers and I

Came back to life

And then I was forgiven by each great man

But a piece inside me died.

- Neha Bansal 

Mother-in-law

I was a child bride

In that large stately house

Where she reigned like a queen,

Having borne the only son

Among the three co sisters

Whose inauspicious wombs

Could squeeze out only girls.

Rising before sunrise, she decked

In gold and  silk shawls.

She yelled at the slothful servants

And guided me through the chores.

As her hands coaxed the cymbals

To the dulcet tunes of her evening bhajan

She would take me to task

For putting too much salt

In the potato curry, a favourite with her son.

She taught me a hundred skills-

To pickle raw mango, to knit a sock and to embroider.

And as I  pressed her feet every night,

Blessed me with the boons to be soon a mother.

Years passed and we moved homes

As my husband progressed in life.

And I bore her two grandsons

Much to her satisfaction and grandmotherly pride.

Still she decided everything

The fastings and the feasting

And I happily played a second fiddle

And we cursed the saas bahu of soaps

Who created much ado about really nothing.

My own sons got married

And moved away abroad

And they would come home

Once in two years

With flighty girls who easily got bored.

They fought with me

For expecting respect from their wives

And berated me for the shackles

Of bondage that I happily wore all our lives.

More years passed, they stopped coming

And I cried myself hoarse

And to her ancient bosom, did I desperately cling.

And when she was finally bedbound

when Alzheimer's took hold.

I fed her patiently with spoon

Wiping the corners of her drooling mouth.

And sang her many a hymn

To soothe her foggy mind

Then did I remember her regal face

That once welcomed me as I crossed her home's threshold.

- Neha Bansal