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