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

 

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

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 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 

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

Love song of Hidimbi, the forest-dwelling wife of Bhima

Love song  of Hidimbi, the forest-dwelling wife of Bhima

I saw him by the Parijat tree

fragrant and wild eyed,

As he walked to and fro

by the sleeping shades of five.

Asked to lure the humans,

the delectable meat.

my cannibal brother,

relished with great appetite.

But one look at him

on the Asvin poornima night,

I was heady with love

in the bower of milky light.

Forgetting my sororal bonds,

the stranger I approached.

My gait coy, eyes downcast

this feeling hitherto, totally unknown.

Gazing at my swarthy face,

his dark eyes gleamed.

he eyed me head to toe

appreciatively, or so, it seemed.

True to my tribal blood,

I couldn’t hold myself back.

And, declared by unabashed love,

to the amusement of brothers now awake.

He blushed like a girl,

this mighty son of God

and went to stand by his mother,

who to her son’s rescue, came to the fore.

With a regal bearing, this fair woman

asked me my name.

To what lineage I belonged?

And, what was my claim to fame.

I was irritated by her scrutiny,

her gaze mocking my Non-Aryan blood.

I could see her cold condescending eyes

But his gentle smile warmed me up.

“ I am the princess of this vana,

Hidimbi my name.

Sister to the mighty king Hidimb,

whose bravery will put most men to shame.

We ride tigers, tame elephants

And hunt humans for meat.

But, will forgo my cannibalistic ways

O, mother! If your customs so insist.”

Before Kunti could open her mouth,

I saw Bheema quickly move.

He fought with my mighty sibling,

my loyalties torn asunder.

Betraying my flesh and blood,

I prayed for the man I had just met.

And, as my brother laid dying

A single tear was shed.

“Was this the brother thou boasted about

Who had sent thee?

Look, I have killed him with my bare hands.”

How Bheema taunted me.

But, Kunti intervened this time

The most unexpected ally,

She chided her beloved son

and hugged me tightly.

“O daughter, thanks for warning us,

Thou may return to thy tribe.

My son, here will escort thee back,

to thine home’s safety”.

I looked at him entreatingly

as he walked with me.

Silent now but with a tender gaze,

his face changed totally.

No more the fierceness of battle,

no more that sardonic gleam,

He clasped my hand in his large ones,

and confessed his love for me.

By the river, in the grotto

we bowed our heads in my family shrine.

Outside, in dawn’s honeyed light,

He vowed to be forever mine.

My modest hut with Asoka scarlet flowers,

gave us the conjugal bliss.

We heard the cooing of doves,

my fragrant body entwined with his.

My beloved told me of their travails,

about their Lakshagraha flight,

running from their scheming kin,

denied their legitimate right.

Kunti came searching for him

with her other mighty sons.

Arjuna with his Gandiva ready

to rescue his dada from the cannibals.

We welcomed them with folded hands,

my lord and I.

As the queen of this verdant forest,

gave asylum to the mother of five.

Thus, the kshatriyas settled with us,

with royal sophistications at bay.

But, atleast they were safe here,

my mother-in-law mulled each day.

A year of unadulterated joy was this,

the foresters loved their guests

and then little Ghatotkacha arrived

to everyone’s sheer delight.

He had big almond eyes,

on the full moon face.

The stoic grandma also beamed,

singing lullaby with great tenderness.

Wearing, the tribal feathers,

the ten month old  moon-faced baby

was fed with the first morsel,

as per the tradition of his dad’s family.

Why, then Bheema looked so sad

As he came to me that night,

His favourite Mahua untouched

he just held me tight.

The following day, they were to leave,

the mother and the brothers five.

And clearly the tribal mother-son duo

didn’t belong to Hastinapur’s high life.

I wasn’t the kshatriya queen

who would be so admired.

My dusky looks and curly mops

would jeopardize all that was desired.

The five were a unit,

like a closed fist.

And, like a self effacing wife,

I must not resist.

Wails of Ghatotkacha, my silent sobs

and the wetness of Bheema’s red eyes.

None could move the steely determination,

and minute by minute all hope dies.

And, then they left us,

on the cold amavasya night.

As my husband gave us one last glance

in the earthen lamp’s flickering light.
                                             - Neha Bansal

(Painting by: Neha Bansal and Dhruw Singh)

Bangles

Bangles 

Turquoise green, they come in the box,

made of Lac and studded with pearls.

Oh! Look at those purple glass ones,

so proud of their beady swirls.

These in their silvery metal sheen,

compete, for attention, with their sequined sisters.

The royal elephants on pink enamelled beds

bring out collective gasps of desire.

As the choodiwala displays his ware,

women in our street, line up for the treat.

Vermillion red or golden hued,

their jingling sound so sweet.

While, Mothers and daughters, sisters and wives

exult with their treasure in pure delight,

We, the shaven headed widows,

with unadorned wrists, cry

silently at our plight.
                               - Neha Bansal