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