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