By Pratibha Badgal
The gold of zari on my Banarasi silk saree,
The silver of my payal and the summery ease of my chikankari,
All the grand details remind me of you,
Oh Beloved!
They say the heart doesn’t discriminate what it loves,
How true is that?
Beloved…Beloved…
As the Ganges in your city flows effortlessly,
So did I when I had first entered your ancient land with my aged dreams,
With the hopes of relishing the comfort you had promised;
I loved you for your mind,
For the passion with which you spoke;
Now,
That mind is chained,
The throne of your varna's pride shackles you,
Your passion converges with venom when it spits slurs at me;
You say I’m a barren land,
For my Yoni didn't give you a child,
It was impure to begin with,
The dirt of my being could not bear your pure seed;
My Lord, My Protector,
You sprout flowers even when you curse,
Then how has your purity failed to sprout life within my body?
Was it the Yoni or the Linga,
Who failed?
Doesn’t your blood turn cold when the debate shifts?
Loving and marrying a vile thing like me,
Must have felt like a great service to you;
A woman beneath your feet,
A dried up raisin, void of all water,
Could it be that the concentration levels of equality and love were so meek,
That I had nothing to soak up?
Beloved… Beloved…
The chime of the prayer bells,
The soft sandalwood scent of incense sticks,
The voice of your mother,
Stops the flow of these thoughts.
Like a sponge, I too begin to soak up the divine truths of Bhagavad Gita:
māṁ hi pārtha vyapāśritya ye ’pi syuḥ pāpa-yonayaḥ
striyo vaiśyās tathā śūdrās te ’pi yānti parāṁ gatim
The sponge dries up,
My memory elapses,
And all I remember is stri...sudra…stri...sudra
In a trance I too begin to chant;
The ancient texts and the age old wisdom guide me to my Supreme Destiny;
My duties await,
The broom in my hand reminds me of who I am,
Of what runs in my blood,
stri...sudra...stri...sudra...the words cycle around my mind,
Beneath the recitations and scented sticks,
I choke and shiver;
At night when you prove your love,
The trance breaks and I come back to my own Self;
The maroon saree that I’m wearing burns my skin,
Our seven vows give it a stale smell,
My kohl mixed tears blacken it,
Ashen it.
So in my bare nakedness I begin my own dance,
I enter my self induced trance;
I Imagine:
The heat of my yoni destroys your manacles,
I pretend to be Kali,
I step on your ample chest and refuse to repent;
I keep my vows and become your Protector,
I guard you from you,
How do you like that Beloved?
I need to rest you say,
The demons are lurking you say,
I need guarding you say;
Well then come
Lord Protector…
Come protect me from your sins,
Here I lie, waiting to see your benevolence and power,
Till then I'll pretend to be the fire of all your yajnas, scarring your purity,
Laughing like a witch in power,
Come Beloved. With your mother's shlokas, come…
So well depiction of today’s life