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)

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

The fall of Draupadi

 It was asked why Draupadi fell first 

as she slipped from those craggy peaks

That were the stairs to the heavens. 

Was it her mocking laughter 

at duryodhana's clumsiness when 

he failed to discern the earth from water 

in the bewitching halls of Indraprastha?

The laughter that was ascribed to her alone. 

The laughter that rang in his ears for eternity 

and justified that blinding rage and burnt  

the dreams of an entire nation to cinders. 

Or, was it the dogged refusal,

actually orchestrated by Krsna,

to allow the guileless son of a charioteer 

break the shackles of a formidable caste system

and participate in her star-studded svayambara.

The refusal that was ascribed to her alone.

The refusal that seared his noble heart so 

that he rejoiced at a helpless woman's shame 

and further alienated a brother from his kin.

Was it because of her assent so shameless 

to be a bride to five husbands? 

A sin so great in Dharamshastras and yet

She dared to swagger with great pride.

An assent ascribed to her alone  

An assent which made bawdy men eye her 

like a golden prize that could be won in a game of dice. 

Or, was it her incessant rants that made 

her husbands lose their sleep as she 

berated them endlessly and for thirteen years

walked about with the long untied hair 

that thirsted for Kaurava blood. 

Those ceaseless rants ascribed to her alone.

The rants that led to killing of Kith and kin 

in this epic tale of carnage. 

No, it wasn't the hatred that burnt 

in the furnace heart of the Yajnaseni 

but, was love that undid her finally. 

It was the love for one man,

that outshone the affection for the other four.

The ache for that greatest archer,

who caught her wild eye at her svayambara.

The passion for that disguised brahmin youth 

whose neck she adorned with a garland of marigold flowers.

The desire for the third kunti-putra 

who brought her dreamy-eyed home,

only to share her with his brothers at his mother's command. 

The devotion to that obedient Pandava brother 

who agreed to the divine plan that granted 

them merely one in five years of wedded bliss. 

The pining for the surrogate son of Indra 

who deliberately broke the nuptial agreement 

And wandered away for twelve years to dally with other wives

The longing for that cousin of Krsna 

Who broke the oath to her 

And brought back a beeming Subhadra home. 

The yearning for the slave of Duryodhana 

who hung his head in shame with his brothers 

As her heart broke in to a million pieces. 

The preference for the man who turned woman,

Who couldn't show his valour when Kichak 

lusted for her in the last days of disguised exile.

The suffering for that slayer of Bhisma and Karna 

Who procrastinated in the battlefield and cared 

more for his valour than ever for her love. 

- Neha Bansal

Shrupnakha's forlorn song

How I wish I had known 

what stony hearts lay 

In those fair Aryan bosoms.

I would have nipped 

the very bud in my heart 

that bloomed a blue lotus 

Matching the magical hue of his skin.

I would have reined in my mind 

that galloped away like a wild stallion, 

Eager to touch those hard sinews, 

as he effortlessly chopped the firewood. 

Instead, I let a hundred peacocks dance 

spreading their colourful tails in monsoon,

mesmerised at the soothing sound 

Of his rain like voice.

And, I smelled a thousand jasmine flowers,

As they swung in the zephyrous breeze,  

when he moved about the modest hermitage.

And I let my heart beguile me,

Drinking in to world's headiest wine of love 

I unabashedly declared my desire.

But, his dark eyes were hard diamonds 

as he coldly doused my heart's fire.

He told me he was married,

and lived happily with his wife 

And had sworn himself 

to that puny woman alone,

For atleast, till the end of this life. 

I didnt understand his rejection 

As my voluptuous body far superior to hers 

Was wanted even by immortals 

that reigned from the blue firmament above. 

And here I offered him a slice of my heart 

as I was taken in by his quiet demeanour 

I just wanted to quench my heart

With the shower of his affections.

What he said next enraged me 

And I was soon seething with anger. 

He welcomed me to offer my charms 

to his even handsomer brother. 

His brother laughed sardonically,

and his wife's jeering eyes locked with mine.

They treated me like a common whore 

And continued with their contemptuous laughter,

But it was the scornful pride in her eyes 

that totally drove me insane thereafter. 

And, I leapt at her bare-handed,

Just to scare the mocking smile off her 

when Lakshmana hacked my nose and ears 

to teach lesson to the likes of me forever. 

It hurt me so to be  violated like that

When not mere body but soul gasped in pain

Couldn't an evolved man like Rama 

have counselled me out of my baser obsession?

And the learned brother of mine 

Instead of avenging my shame like a man, 

Stole another man's wife by creating illusions, 

An act so unkingly and of misplaced passion.

Having lost my ephemeral beauty,

I was even robbed of my character 

As the Aryan mythmakers called me 

the reason for the ensuing man-slaughter. 

No one ever understood my pain when

Not only was I stripped of my good looks,  

But, also deprived of my birth-name Meenakshi.  

I went down in history as a wanton Rakshasi,

Not the Lankan princess of a noble birth 

But a much mocked farcical stock character

Who wandered the enchanting forests 

and died by the lonely brooks. 

- 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

Urmila

Urmila

While feminists sing Sita’s blues

Decrying Rama’s spineless back,

The traditionalists try to justify

Keeping Rama in his times and context.

The little sister of Janaki

is never talked about.

The languishing wife of Laxmana

who for fourteen years was left behind.

Honouring his fraternal ties,

when he followed Rama,

the world extolled his supreme devotion

and relinquishing the princely charms.

But no one cares for his lonely wife

who embraced sleep at his command.

For fourteen years, Urmila slept

And dreamt dutifully his share of dreams

While he stood wide awake

To guard outside Rama’s hermitage.

Her tender dreams of honeyed love

Turned sour by his departure

Even the sweet embrace of sleep

Couldn’t provide any succour.

The long unloved fourteen years

brought fine wrinkles and grey hair.

Urmila sleeps on her palatial bed,

her nuptial dreams sacrificed at duty’s altar.

                                                    - Neha Bansal

Flaming June (1895) by Lord Leighton

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)

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

writing back to the centre

from: classical telugu poetry - an anthology

edited and translated by: v narayana Rao and david Schulman

Sita

Sita was my classmate

she and i pored over

that great new poem the Ramayana

of Satyanarayana

when we were finished I asked her

looking ar her thoughtful eyes:

"You listened to the whole story

we followed Rama

with the swiftness of poetry

into the wilderness of ancient times

we met him, went, to the forest with him,

we saw him

kill Bali from behind the tree

and test his wife by fire

Now tell me, do you want to 

live like sita, the wife of hero Rama?

When she heard me, she said:

"hey Pratabhi

Sita is the very epitome of

Indian womanhood

Its a dream, having

the good fortune

to live like her

But even if I want to be Sita

I'd never want to be Rama's wife

tell me, would you ever want to be 

Rama yourself?"

why should I, when you don't want

to be Rama's wife?

My desire, rather is to become Ravana.

with all my ten mouths

I will kiss your lips, your face. I will

bind you

with the gaze of my twenty eyes

I will press you to my chest

with twenty strong arms

and make you one with me

in one embrace 

Now,

Sita is my wife

                          - pratabhi (1919- )

isn't it interesting?? here Pratabhi, the poet wins the hand of "sita", who'd prefer to be Ravana's wife and not Rama's. What we see here is the subversion of a Grand Narrative built over a myriad years that all hindu women would  naturally and blissfully want to chant the hymn to gauri and fast on to ensure a Rama like husband. The test by fire to which sita is subjected  and insensate machinations to kill Bali on the part of Rama is contrasted with the pratabhi's passionate "Ravana role-playing"..

These little subversions here and there perhaps make life less tyrannical with those little gaps to be filled with all those hitherto supressed voices. Writing back to the centre hence becomes one of the greatest freedom that a writer representing the voice of "the other" can enjoy. And the hitherto "infallible" fortresses of the given narratives become less formidable to scale.

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