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

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

Crochet Lace Hankies

Crochet Lace Hankies

Surfing internet for hours and hours

to kill my nocturnal ennui

I stumbled upon those long forgotten

Crochet laced hankies .

Sewn with dainty silken laces,

like the ones my mother made

in lilac, aquamarine and tangerine shades.

She decorated my kerchiefs

With dulcet patterns looped with care

and fixed them to my check pinafore

as she dropped me at the day care.

And she also made hordes of them

to pack them in my trousseau trunk.

As nostalgia washed me over again,

I ordered a dozen online

For my mother with her dwindling eyesight.

- 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)

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

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

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

In Praise of Right To Education (RTE)

Raju can’t go to school

because there are barriers.

A  mental  barrier of prejudice

which only see those polio stricken legs

and a physical barrier of

a steep flight of stairs.

But no one knows

the song in his soul and

the magic in his heart

which makes him wonder at the

green grass and the phases of the moon.

And then came the RTE

which cleared away all the barriers,

walls of prejudice and steep steps of exclusion.

Now,  Raju  goes to school

and his teacher tells him

about the colours of the rainbow

which make Raju’s paintings vibrant

and his songs dulcet. 
-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

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

The agony and the ecstasy of staging a play: the experience in Lal Bahadur Shastri National Academy of Administration, mussoorie

The creative hiatus that had struck me in phase 1 finally left me and I promised Joyoshi that if she takes the onerous task of becoming the fine arts society secretary, I’d definitely help her stage a play. The fact that many of us wanted to stage a play was definitely a welcoming one but the  first point of contention was what play it would be. The suggestions ranged from practically “un-doable” plays like “waiting for Godot” to very “doable ones” like “mouse trap”. Some of us wanted light hearted humour and some wanted intense play showing modern man’s predicament and travails. There were debates about “art for art sake” and  art for other “not so arty” reasons and finally I had my way by bullying others (chiefly Cyril) to accept my idea of doing an adaptation of a german play (friedrich duerenmatt’s “der besuch der alten dame”) which I stumbled upon as a student of the language during the university days. I had also seen a very interesting but very bold hindi adaptation of the same play which left an indelible mark on me.

And then came the issue of non-availability of script. The copy we ordered through library was to take at least 15 days for arrival and hence we decided to write a script based on the basic story of the play but incorporating the consummate Indian ethos along with certain aspects of western philosophy. So while there were allusions to Draupadi from hindu mythology, there were also references to “infernal pools” and purgatorial fires” (inspired from Dante himself), making the play instantaneously Indian and yet universal in its appeal.

The play explores the themes of the man’s most primordial instincts of greed and revenge. It presented us a Mephistophelian choice where Prem (Cyril) barters his soul (unlike faust’s 25 years of absolute power) for mere earthly trifles like land, cows and buffalos and this barter haunts him at the end of his life, when the Frankenstein monster of his own making in the form a vengeful Hemvati (suman rawat) comes to claim his soul. She epitomises the saying, “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” as she laughs neurotically and forewarns him of being hell herself when Prem hoping to revive an old romance, innocently says that he knows she has gone through hell.

I, however, think that the hallmark of the play is its townspeople (played by ashutosh niranjan, bhaskar lakshkar, kartikeya goel, arjun, neha Sharma, sonika and garima mittal) who perceptibly succumb to their greed, selling their souls in little degrees and do what they had hitherto called impossible. We see them coveting hemvati’s money while assassinating her character, singing her praises as she decides to bequeath an astronomical sum for revamping the town’s economy, being scandalised as hemvati asks for prem’s head in lieu of her help and then slowly but knowingly drifting towards being exactly what they claim not to be when they say “hum bikau nahi hai”. The townspeople are directed by a hypocrite mayor and his even more hypocrite wife (played beautifully by shah faesal and joyoshi respectively) who claim to be friends of prem and yet not only connive but also partake in this macabre dance of greed and murder. The only voice of reason being professor shekhar(Praveen), who after many failed efforts of trying to reason with the blood thirsty crowd, stands as a helpless spectator as prem is lynched by the mob and his wife’s (played by me) screams are muffled. 

Staging this play presented us with many difficulties. But in-between interaction with seniors, excursions with friends, visits by spouses and a myriad other pre-occupations, we did manage to rehearse and practise the play to put up a fairly decent show against all odds. I would like to extend my sincere gratitude to nakul, safi and ashutosh salil for their help with background sound, lighting and narration and also the handful of audience including the esteemed faculty and some faithful friends who made our evening with their presence and encouraged us.

- Neha Bansal

The Witch Hunt

When they paraded her naked,

jeering at her, condemning her to be the "dayan"

her ancient breasts on her wrinkled body

were wounded by the stones pelted.

Her stoic eyes surveyed the scene

refusing to shed a single tear,

rested for a flickering moment on me

and i averted mine in cowardice.

Refusing to acknowledge those years of affection,

she showered on her neighbor's children.

Denying the tangy taste of raw mango candy

that she hid in our pockets magically

and wearing of those hibiscus and frangipani flowers

with which she tidied our unruly hair.

Abnegating those myriad times when her timely interruption

saved us from our mothers' beatings

and also forgetting her "knowing teasing" look as

I eyed, courted and eventually married her only niece.

And I let them burn her at stake

for the sickness of village children

and deaths of three cows and one half-blind dog,

knowing well it to be the pretext

to grab her half an acre land.

- Neha Bansal

Requiem for the Earth

seasons changed, years passed

but the cycle of Life continued

what died yesterday, bequeathed an inheritance on today

and Death was won over.

the bountiful mother nurtured us,

fulfilled our every need....

But, today, slowly writhing in agony,

the terminal patient waits for her death,

surrounded by her sons

whose eyes twinkle in insatiable greed...

- Neha Bansal

photo courtesy : Deepak Rao