The Barren Woman

The Barren Woman

They called her “baanjh”

The barren earth

Who couldn’t bloom a little flower.

A beloved grandson

Who would help them

Cross “Vaitarni” after death.

Putting her eggs under scanner,

While the test for their virile son proscribed.

They dragged her to the Guru’s cave

for the grant of their heart’s desire.

With greasy dirty hands,

He felt her all over

And said that he would cleanse her

of her previous birth’s sins.

As the evening chants grew louder

and the twilight deepened,

the Guru repeatedly raped her

and her cries drowned in the din.

At dawn, shutters were opened

And the acolytes dressed her up.

With “blessings” planted,

She was handed over at once.

Now cleansed by Guru

She should hopefully conceive

And put an end to the shame

of being a barren womb.

- Neha Bansal

a flower crushed..

Under the amaltas tree

The yellow blossoms

Adorned a little bride

In an innocent childhood game

of marrying the boy next door.

She clasped his pudgy fingers

amidst marigold confetti,

simulated the sacred satapadi

around the flaming pile

of deep gulmohar fire.

Now lying by his side,

Watching the sky turn red

And lilac and indigo,

She weaved her dreams

In floral patterns

of cherished hopes and

joyous future.

Night now and reluctantly

giving up her playmate’s company

she walked back home

chasing the glow worms

when those rapine hands

snatched away her childhood

crushed the petals

pilfered her dreams

outraged her modesty

violated the flower

of her being...

- Neha Bansal

The acid attack

Hers was not the “face that launched

A thousand ships” but certainly could singe

envious hearts of the dusky damsels,

though prettier, eclipsed against her

“Fair and lovely” charm in a country crazed

by the porcelain pale skin and light eyes.

A darling of all neighbourhood aunties

And secretly of uncles as well,

 She walked with a bounce

of youth and smug confidence.

She walked on a rose-petalled path,

discouraging lovelorn offers

With the ice perfected over precocious years,

Happily ignorant of the bitterness

Of unrequited love and the

Smouldering murderous rage

Being carried in a vial every day.

- Neha Bansal

Honour Killing

The sun bled red at the horror

and the footfalls of human night

when he hacked his only daughter

into nineteen pieces, a gift

for each spring she enjoyed on

the courtyard swing enrapturing

the family with her glee and picking up

yellow and pink wildflowers to weave

them in to her ecstatic pigtails...H
-Neha Bansal

devi

It was Chaitra Ashtami..

and he called the little goddesses home,

washed their feet, served them meals

and considered himself lucky

on accomplishing yet again the biannual feat.

He praised Durga and on sandal rosary beads

chanted her hundred and eight names.

While she dreaded the coming days,

singing lullaby to her never-to-be-born 'Devi'
- Neha Bansal