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

 

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

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

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

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

Yashoda

Yashoda

Won’t you turn back and look, Kanha?

and see her tear stained face

and the eyes that stonily stare

at the dimming sight of your caravan?

Won’t you see those quivering lips

moving silently to bless you for eternity?

Would you forget the touch of her scalded fingers

that broke for you the hot bread into tiny morsels?

and the sound of her jingling bangles

as she churned out the frothy butter?

The scent of her jasmine bound hair,

You inhaled as she spun the fairy tales?

The warmth of her hug on those moonless nights,

When the spooky monster chilled your spine?

And, the pearly white smile that grew bigger

At your every big and small achievement?

The courtyard chase in mock anger

at the butter thefts and neighbourhood clamour?

And, the midnight spying by the omniscient mother

As you stole away to sing and dance with Radha?

Would you not think of her

as you fulfil your glorious destiny?

Would you not think of her

as you slay Kamsa and guide Pandavas

on the chessboard of their tumultuous lives?

Would you not think of her

as you take sixteen thousand and eight wives

and prevent disrobing of Draupadi?

Would you not think of her

as you become the Narayana

and come to be known as an incarnation of Visnu?

Would you not think of her

as you herd your tribe to the resplendent city of Dwarka

and when you lay dying with an arrow stuck in your heel?     
- Neha Bansal

An outing with girlfriends

An outing with friends

On a cold wintry night

sipping the Starbucks latte

we drove around the city,

discussing the leitmotifs

in a Director’s cut

we had watched that evening

on reclining seats with ottomans

and warm blankets to cover our feet.

In Jimmy Choo heels

clutching Louis Vuitton bags,

we planned for fancier cars

and holidays in Provencal France.

Bitched about indolent maids

and the meddlesome in-laws.

Ranted about the wearisome life in general

And the overbearing bosses in particular.

Made fuss over the Sabyasachi ensembles,

For the friend’s destination wedding next year.

We cursed the government that

wasted tax payers’ money copiously

and the uncouth people at large

for spitting and pissing all over the city.

The harangue went on and on about

the myriad discomforts of our lives

till the time we saw her,

the one with the vacant eyes.

She stood on the side walk,

her clothes tattered and torn

her hair a lifeless brown and shorn

her youthful body contrasting

with the ancient stoic face.

Silent now in the snail-paced traffic,

we soberly passed by her

and saw her survey the footpath

to rest her weary bones

under the cold street light.

-Neha Bansal

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

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)

Hiraeth : mint chutney made by my mother

Hiraeth : mint chutney made by my mother

Mornings are no longer

those languorous times,

when the sweet dreams of the night

gave way to trays of breakfast in bed.

Aalu Parantha and white butter

with mint chutney so heartily prepared

on “Sil batta” my mother received in dowry.

Juliennes of ginger, minced garlic

bunches of mint with a hint of chilly

crushed together under the ancient stone

with just enough pressure,

a skill perfected over years.

So different from the one I make-

the homogenous paste

prepared in haste

in the mixer grinder

to spread on a hurried toast

gulped down with an insipid green tea.
                                            - Neha Bansal

Ahalya

Ahalya

 Why does her husband feel different, tonight

with passions galore?

The stony gaze has given way

to the roving admiration.

The embrace is warm and comforting

as sitting by a bonfire.

The silken eager touch so different

from the ennui of a bored lover.

The sweet nothings he whispers tonight

are nothing like the hitherto silent rituals.

Who, then stands at the door, with ashen face,

When he loves her so??

The fury of the Rishi knew no bounds

as he eyed both.

While the defiled wife cringed with horror,

Her beguiler tried to flee.

Covering her nakedness,

Ahalya stammered to explain.

Silenced as she turned to stone

and cursed to remain so.

Summers baked, winters froze

And rains washed her rigid self

as she stood rooted

to the very same spot.

Who did her greater harm

Her stony self wondered.

Was it the shape shifter

Who gave her the night of bliss

Or her lord of many wedded years

Whose rage made her Still.
                                        - Neha Bansal

(The poem is a voice of Ahalya, the beautiful wife cursed to be a stone, by her "saint-husband", Gautama Rishi as he found in her bed with Indra, disguised as Rishi himself. While lord Indra was punished in a very humiliating manner, Ahalya was given no chances to explain. She was just shut up!! muted!! Her original form could only be revived by the touch of Lotus feet of Lord Rama. )

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

Arranged Marriage: the old fashioned way

He went there with his five aunts

and three brothers-in-law.

The banarasi-clad aunts spoke a lot,

the co-brothers a little

and the groom not at all.

He sat almost broodingly,

the branch manager of a sarkari bank,

with your average Indian moustaches.

Kachoris  with tangy tamarind chutney

from back-street Natthu halwai served,

whose laurels  along  with bhua’s 

cross-stitched table cloth 

shamelessly ascribed to the bride.

The aunts nodded approval when she

brought forth the tea tray,

with bowed head and bashful eyes,

 tutored by her omniscient mausi.

Gulping down the elaichi tea

and eyeing her surreptitiously,

the groom quickly noticed her

besan-cured complexion;

her long snaky braid, pliant

 yet promisingly passionate.

No questions were ever asked

about bride’s aspirations.

Topic of dowry hushed up but

Traditions were to be respected.

Leave taking now, the groom afforded

a lingering glance on his bride-to-be,

definitely not lost on chuckling aunts

and the beaming parents of the bride.

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

the multi-tasking indian women

An eight armed Goddess!!  With a ladle in one hand, while a laptop adorns the other, a diaper blooming on her open palm as she cradles her little child in the crook of her other arm. A watering can dangles from those deft fingers, as she balances the tray of cookies and other goodies, and tries answering the phone call of her boss, with one gloved hand making its way for the cake baking in the oven. 

No, its not an animated movie with special effects, nor has Goddess Durga, the primeval feminine "shakti" condescended to grace thee with her presence!! Its the image that conjures up in my mind almost magically, the minute the phrase "multi tasking indian woman" is mentioned.

Being a woman in India is as challenging if not more than being one in another country with tons of laundry to be done, shopping to be shopped, that delectable sumptuous platter to be presented as per the preferance of pizza loving billu and pinki, "dal roti" sasu maa, "mughlai" hubby, and thai curry- ardent  guest who had chosen to make himself "atithi deva" that very day and would very much like to encroach upon bhabhi ji's hospitality.. :-)

and to top it all, imagine those incessant calls from the boss  ( even when the leave has been duly taken), for this and that and this!! while the little "slice of her heart" clamours for attention and the darling husband playing romantic by losing all his shirt buttons!! 

India, a society in transition, still has to wake up to the idea of fair divison of labour as with the educational and economic advancement of the woman, the "best" of both the worlds is "blessing"  her with the windfall.

Therefore, the multi-tasking "superwoman" goes round and round, using all her wits and not to mention every ounce of her energy to complete her Sisyphus- tasks only to find many more springing up as from the little droplets of evil blood in ancient lores,  many headed Hydras gestate!! the demons which need a goddess with her eight arms to combat and to be finished!!

Having proven their mettle in ever field, Indain women have to crusade  against a more formidable foe. Having conquered prejudices, which doubted her capabilities, she now has to conquer "heightened expectations" which prove a more arduous task than any of those given to Herakles himself..

The expectation of being an exemplary leader or a helpful team mate at the work place, along with being an equally dexterous housewife on the domestic front... the expectation of being an understanding peer and following the ideals of being a perfect wife, which as per indian tradition are  "to counsel her man like a judicious magus, to run errands for him like a slave girl, to feed him like his mother would and to pleasure him like a courtesan"

But the question that arises is whether any human being - especially the one that has been called "the weaker sex" for such a long time, really capable of accompolishing all these tasks, while maintaining her cheery benignity and not to forget her makeup- those waxed arms with french manicured nails??

Is it humanly possible for her,   "the weaker vessel" to swim among the sharks just like her man does at her work place and yet must come home all smiling to do a sink full of dirty dishes and basket full of laundry clothes?? Is it humanly possible for her to bring out of her cornucopian horn (or akshayapatra if u prefer), toothsome food which would please the varying palates??

If its not humanly possible and yet she accompolishes these herculean tasks, then the epithet - "eight armed durga" is hardly a misnomer!! :-)

p.s.  i started this one as a serious essay but its just that i feel too blithe right now to add a didactic note to it :-)

devi - journey of a woman in to divinity and lunacy

Its the tale of Doyamoyee who having unwittingly cured one villager after another,  fails to cure the one who mattered the most- her cherubic nephew khoka... its the tale of a woman who willingly chooses to live the dream of her father-in-law (who saw her as an reincarnation of goddess kali) and so convinced of her own divinity, refuses to go with her educated husband who tries to make her see sense.... its the tale of a woman who experiences solitude even amid the myriad who had flocked to her door for blessing or boon or treatment... its the tale of a woman who loses it all.. her beloved nephew khoka, the belief in herself, her husband, and most importantly her sanity... and in the end vanishes in the mist...losing herself....

the president gold medal winning, satyajit ray's movie generated a lot of controversy when many fanatics saw it as an attack on hinduism and tried to stop it from its international release. but with it eventual release, it won standing ovation everywhere, apart from the coveted president's medal. Sharmila tagore who in her teenage gave the outsatanding perfprmance as Doyamoyee once commented "Devi was what a genius got out of me, not something I did myself". 

What made me ruminate for days was what was Ray's intention (if it was to be believed that all art had a purpose)? the spectator as per his/her socio-cultural baggage would interpret the end of this movie differently. a person not aware of hindu customs and beliefs may see it as a divine nemesis of sorts... a woman who tries to become goddess faces the wrath of goddess by losing what ever she valued the most?? but then the question i would like to ask is... that if it was a blasphemy for a woman to see herself as the goddess, why was the one who put this in her head spared?? otherwise as well... as i said.. one has to understand that in hindu culture.. it is not out of place to have human incarnations for gods and goddesses.

The other explanation vendible is the psychological breakdown a human undergoes when he/she carries more weight than one can.. the responsibility of the goddess to cure the multitudes of their "fever and fret" of the world sequesters her from all that was hitherto dear to her.. she plays lesser with khoka now..can't seem to connect to her role as wedded wife.. can't hold gossip sessions with her fellow woman and can't even massage her father-in-law's feet,  all thanks to her newly found status of being a "devi"... for a devi doesn't trifle over such things... and when the final test comes, she realises all her ministrations have come to nothing. All her divinity comes to nothing when she had to heal the one most cherished.. and she fails the ones who mattered the most... a reason good enough for anyone to go insane.

perhaps, the beauty of any classic lies not in establishing the real meaning of the text but relishing in its ever-fleetingness... :-)

- Neha Bansal

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